I'm Not Crazy Or Dangerous, Just A

He Was Addicted To Me And Now He Has Gone Cold Turkey. He Used To Send Me Fifty Texts A Day. And Now He Is Ignoring Me. It's Like I Was Once His Barack Obama. And Now I Am John Mccain, Conceding Defeat Like A Sad-face Sock Puppet, Knowing I Have Sold The Best Of Myself. He, My Electorate, Not Only Does Not Want Me, He Actively Feels Pity.

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.

People Don't Know. We Don't Know Ourselves So We Tell Ourselves What We Really Know Is Other People. We Could Say The Depth Of Pain We Feel For The Lovers Who've Left Us Is Because We Knew Them So Well.

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.