"If I told you a secret / You won't tell a soul
Will you hold it and keep it alive / Cause it's burning a hole And I can't get to sleep / And I can't live alone in this lie"

-

I used to really love you. You know?
The kind of love when it’s really painful to see the endings and you can’t bare to imagine it, because it tears your guts out. And it doesn’t care, and you’re bleeding. Endlessly (now it's kind of: nothing at all).
Today I’ve come to think differently. I think, people I love are just here to make those little holes in my heart. The tiniest word that pierces through the toughest skin, it burns my flesh and crawls through my vessels, and breaks my heart again. The strongest wall could be broken if you drill it in the right spots. The strongest heart could be stopped with a needle. All of the sudden, it’s unbelievably fragile.
The smallest gestures create a million holes inside. And than we are created. I. Me. She. Whoever the fuck I am. A girl with a hole too endless – too big, one that cannot be filled with food or fixed by words. A million things can make it grow, but nothing can sew it, or fix it, or change it in any other way. It seems like it could never disappear.