My imagination is a sick animal. It gives pain where it is not present. But somehow this pain demands to be felt. How do I know if i'm alive? Is this painful breath a sign of living? Is this sharp stab in the chest a picture of life? Gosh, strange things really do happen when sleep doesn't.
I don't know who I am anymore. Sometimes I pretend you love me, and at that point among all times, I would give out all the love I don't own.
It's fine. Maybe next time it will hurt less.
I lied. I will never be fine.