It's hard to write. I talk, but I dont find it easy. It's admitting what you feel, it's not always fulfilling. I don't necessarily want to accept this. It's something I'm constantly fighting. Heartache. They have gone.
To feel no self worth. Completely empty, a shell. Complete heartache is the most complete thing about me. The kind where air wont fill you up and food becomes frivalry. Nothing seems worth anything without them. The staples and the crutch. It feels like I've had the air sucked out of me. I feel silly for feeling this. For talking about this. For writing this. For publishing this. Admitting this. You get the point.
Where's the plaster?
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