So many things break my heart everyday. But the next instant you’re just suppose to move on, and keep going. There’s no time to really feel, to really understand any of it. So instead of collapsing to the floor, I push it down. Swallow the feeling that’s telling me to collapse on the floor and cry out for help. Ignore the truth of what’s happening. And it’s f***ing hard, but you’re expected to just keep going going going, so it’s the only real option. You have to save it for later.

That’s the thing, then. It doesn’t just go away. Every couple weeks you’re laying in your bed and you have been for hours but the idea of sleep is still far away, and it comes. It swells, slowly but surely, like a building symphony getting louder and grander until the noise of all that pain consumes all thoughts of anything and suddenly you’re drowning in all the ways you’ve been cut open; all the paper cuts are pooling together and you’re lying in the blood; it’s rising, it’s up to your neck, it’s over your lips now. And you take one last clear look at the world as your eyes fill and you realize that this is what dying feels like. One tiny heartbreak at a time.