I feel like I'm made of bone dust and clay, and my heart is a wounded and desperate bird, launching itself against the inside of my chest, over and over again. I want out.  

I thought I sacrificed only my happiness for someone else's, but now he has it, and there is nothing left of me. 

Just words. Hi weird girl. I promise I won't make you give it up. This is just how I am. I love you. It's wrong because it makes you happy. 

At least I have written. As a hated child I never expected to be wanted, but hoped to write. So I know stories - I felt it in March, the joy was too great; it would steal from my future.