This is sort of my last place to hide because you have every other social media outlet I own. And my hands hurts and my fingertips are numb I don't want to scrawl novels in a journal.

I'm starting to think I was happier without you. Haven't picked up a razorblade in years and hear I am flipping it between fingertips flirting with the idea. I wouldn't though. I don't have the heart for it anymore. I don't want to hide it all again. I still want to see me in the mirror when I get ready in the morning.

But you're so beautiful. You know me a lot better than I'd like to admit. But in doing so you have every fucking capability of reducing me to a pile of trembling bones. And I love you.

Six months of this crazy ride and I don't think I wanna call it quits yet.

I've been happier with you than anyone else but still, what does that even say about me?

I have a lot of thinking to do and maybe we have a lot of talking to do. Woman of my dreams and then some. I don't think I'm ready to let you go.