The best thing about me are my emotions, until they get the best of me.

I am ashamed by how I handled this.

The best thing about me are my emotions, until they get the best of me.

What’s worse is how we romanticize anger to love, saying all of this was once love, but no, it’s not. It was just red. It was just blood spilled on the floor.

Nothing more, nothing else.

My head is clear, like an empty sky, and from a distance you can hear an echoing cry, screaming for a name I have long forgotten.

Like the amateur I am, I hold my belongings like a lost child that wails amidst the crowd, hoping if I cry loud enough, it will come back to me.

I wish you’d look back, like a parent that attempts to teach discipline to a raging toddler, throwing a tantrum. Just once, you’d reach out and leave with me. But you’re exhausted with me, and there’s nothing I can do but to bow my head and face the consequences of losing and letting go of you.

I can no longer blame the girl left crying on the swings.

I can no longer blame the girl left alone on the lunch table.

After all, it was her fault, even if she didn’t know.