If You Don't Know Who You Are,

No One Ever Loved You Like Him. And No One Ever Took It Away So Completely. But It's Here. Look Around.

I Envied Women With Signature Hair-dos, Signature Perfumes, Signature Sign-offs. Novelists Who Tell Vogue Magazine: “i Can’t Live Without My Smythson Notebook, Pomegranate Noir Cologne By Jo Malone And Frette Sheets”. In The Grip Of Madness, Materialism Begins To Look Like An Admirable Belief System.

What People Don't Understand When You've Already Been A Suicide And Pulled Through Is That After The Sadness Comes Fear: Where Is My Mind Going With This? I Don't Want To Die. I Do Not Want To Die. When You Don't Have So Much Control Over Your Own Thoughts, Over The Myriad Voices In Your Head, You Don't Know Where They Could Go.

You Want To Know, But Are Afraid To Ask, Whether Or Not I Found Someone. If There Could Be Anyone To Fill That Hole In My Heart After I Lost Him. I Did. "life Is Futile," Says My New Therapist, Michaela, "and No One Gets Out Of It Alive. There Is Only Love.

He Was A Super Shiny Boy And I Liked The Shape Of Him. Under The Blanket. In The Shower. I Liked His Shadow On The Street And His Imprint On The Sofa. I Hated The Smell Of Hair Gel On His Head, But I Loved It On The Pillow. I Love The Smell Of Losing Someone.