Beautiful. As beautiful as it gets, in this world. And you thoughtlessly shattered their existence, rampaging through life's offerings like a punkass kid running around the Sainte-Chapelle with rocks on Infinite Ammo mode.

Now you carry around the shards, each one still beautiful, the tragedy and the poetry and the raw emotion of the shattering itself adding to the beauty.

Nostalgia is thinner than cheap tissue paper. It doesn't protect you when you haul the shards out and hold them up to the light, to each other, to the present day. Which you are so inherently prone to doing, you do it in your fucking sleep. Bleeding regret, day and night, night and day. It shouldn't be possible to be this okay with current life, at a baseline level, and so dissatisfied and regretful at the same time. Not surprising it is, though.

You don't even know how to let the pieces go. Drop 'em down a sewer, tie them to balloons, bury them in the yard. And who the fuck wants to get close to a woman clutching broken glass, ignoring the pain and blood?

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Those among us with codependent tendencies are drawn to the blood and broken glass like mosquitos to the zapper.

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