There’s an ache in my chest and a sick hunger in my stomach.

I don’t know why they come when they do, but I have plenty of reasons for them to stay.

When it feels like it belongs ,why should it ever want to leave?

If my story makes strangers cry, how am I supposed to smile?

And sometimes I like to feel sad. To sit in my sorrow and feel justified in self pity.

And then I want to tell, and I try… but whenever I try to explain what it feels like you want to hear sentences and I’ve got pages.

I’ve got enough baggage to vacation in every country on Earth.

And my extra weight isn’t your fee to pay, you’ve already heavied your bag with my tear stained sweaters and ripped sole shoes.

I walk barefoot now, over the rough concrete using your arm to hold myself up.

But eventually, my story will become too long. And I’ll have chapters to write, but seconds to breathe. And your arm will become heavy and we’ll both….

Fall down.

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