Home became the haven I didn’t really like to leave as I recovered from “what lied beneath” one of the most twisted mind fucks of my life. Eventually, I started feeling better and started working out again at a gym I’d been a member of for years. Lol! If only I’d have known that not going back to his gym in an attempt to eradicate myself of his presence would ultimately prove to be pointless. “Hoovery MacHooverson” would always be lingering in my atmosphere. But, hey … AT LEAST I TRIED!
It was my very first visit back to that haunt that I’d made eye contact with this very cute dirty blond. We flirted back and forth a lot and I enjoyed his quiet attention, but it was months before we ever really spoke one Saturday night at what I’d only thought was an empty gym. Little did I know, he’d been there, solo, too, watching me and waiting for his moment … then it happened! He’d walked up behind me, pulled the microphones from my ears, and our much-anticipated conversation began:
So, why aren’t you out with your boyfriend right now? It’s Saturday night! Why are you alone here?
An hour later, we were at dinner across the street, and soon thereafter an item. Kirk Mitchell Boone was a strikingly handsome Cajun boy from Haughton, Louisiana, with whom I had a lot in common. He was genuinely kind, treated me with respect, and always kept me laughing. With him, I felt a safety that I’d never really known, and although I was careful not to jump into something serious too quickly, by the end of that year I just knew he was the one.
He was everything John wasn’t. There wasn’t a manipulative, narcissistic, self-serving bone in his body, and he never once took me for granted. We were very happy and even my family loved him, but I had firmly decided I would not bring another man into Christian’s life unless I knew he’d be the last. I’d kept their contacts brief, which was something Mitch agreed with and respected. I was so happy, and things couldn’t have been better.
Even Christian’s dad seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that Mitch wasn’t going anywhere, and though He’d claimed to still love me, He could see that I was truly happy. In the two years Mitch and I were together, though, the two of them had never met in person and had only ever spoken on the phone a few times when He would call the house. That was about to change …
On this cool, crisp day in November, John asked me to meet him at a church in Sachse, Texas where he had been invited by one of my new “Christian” friends and mentors,Angie, who he’d befriended as well, to attend a Power Team evangelism show and also be baptized afterwards. He said he had something exciting to tell me that night, and based upon the tone and context of the conversations we’d been having, I had every reason to believe that he was going to propose to me. Imagine my surprise then when after the baptism I was led into a room in the back of the church where he was standing beside Angie and her entire family of people I’d truly come to admire and respect. It was then that John told me that he was “so sorry”, but over the months, “God had called them together”, they’d fallen in love, and had been hiding their relationship from me.
There I stood, just as I had 20 years before, numb and sick with the same stinging, disconnected pain just beneath the top layer of my skin on the day of the Spic and Span. I walked out of the church heartbroken and alone and just started driving on a 300-mile round trip to Oklahoma City and back. I’d just danced with the devil, a narcissist of unspeakable proportion, who after all was said and done “hoovered me” for years to come, but that’sanother story for another time.
When I arrived back in Dallas, it was just about time for the Saturday parking lot meet with Christian and his dad for our weekend custody switch. I was wrecked beyond belief but doing everything I could to keep it all together for my son’s sake. I needed not to let what had happened the night before break me down completely, and by this stage in the game I was a pro at stuffing painful things down and pretending they just didn’t exist. Despite my best efforts, though, I consciously decided to pick a fight with my ex-husband so I could just run away and avoid having to fake my way through a “normal” weekend visit with son. I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, had just experienced the second biggest bombshell of my life, and although I didn’t know it, was less than 15 minutes away from the first of my nervous breakdowns. I went back to my parents’ where I’d been living at the time, swallowed every single pill, capsule, and liquid medicine I could find in my bathroom. I JUST WANTED TO GO “HOME”!
The details of that morning were never very clear, but I do remember lying there, just rocking back and forth and screaming that I wanted to be with God. It was my sister who first realized what I had done to myself and called 911. Meanwhile, my ex-husband and son had followed me home because he’d been concerned that something was just “off” at our meeting and was worried.
My parents were ballistic as my sister frantically pulled me out of the bed to the bathroom to make me vomit everything I’d swallowed. While I cannot and will not ever say that I actually died that day, what I can say is that something did happen within my body and soul in that moment that not only defies logic, but as well everything I’d been taught to believe about life, death, and “hereafter” in my cradle Catholicism. It was “something”. I went “somewhere”. “Somewhere” I can still hardly fathom. No, I never saw “the light at the end of the tunnel” we often hear people speak of when they’ve had a near death experience, because again, I don’t think I was actually dying. Rather, there was a numbing, soothing, lulling void in my mind, as if I were being cradled in blissful nothingness by every single hand from every single shred of the universe at once. It was ethereal to say the least, and even still when I think of it I want to cry, but not in a sad way, in a joyous one. That moment devoured and immersed me in something so much bigger than my simple mind will ever understand, yet at the same time I very much do understand it.
Meanwhile, my Christian, a mere five years old at the time, managed to slip through all the chaos and come to me. He, too, was ballistic and frantically crying, but had taken hold of my wrist and was patting my back as though HE were the parent consoling their child. Up until that point, I hadn’t been able to focus on anything in the room, because everything around me was just “dark”, yet I could very clearly hear everything my son was saying:
Mommy, God’s not ready for you to go Home. He wants you to stay here and be my mom.
It’s imperative to note that although I could see his mouth moving and hear the words he was saying, it was not Christian’s voice I was hearing. I firmly believe, and will never be convinced otherwise, that it was God. God, Himself was speaking to me through my son. He’s real, my friends. HE’S REAL!
I stayed in the hospital for a few days until the state committed to a psyche ward where I underwent intense treatment for clinical depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, and the sorely delayed but much needed rape counseling I’d never gotten. My whole family was involved in this process, which was something that by then that we were all in dire need of.
Looking back now, I realize that I didn’t want to die that morning, I just couldn’t pull myself out of the black hole that I was in. I was lucky. Very lucky. I made it home in time for Christmas that year feeling lighter and happier than I had in years, clear-headed, focused, and internally combusted with a fire in my soul of epic proportion. Despite the unbelievably selfish horror I had put them all through, my entire family welcomed me home again.
As for the devil? He never ONCE turned back see what he had done! It was such an easy choice for him to just discard me as the unwanted “baggage” he’d once referred to as my son. As for me? It was everything, because I loved him (or so I thought), trusted him, and had given him every piece of my already broken heart I could have given.
As for her? Her betrayal of me “in Jesus’ name” literally murdered my soul and caused spiritual damage within my heart and psyche that would take years to recover from. Perhaps you’ve heard it said:
The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.
Well, it wasn’t for years that I’d finally understand that they were two of the actualdevil’s own. He, the consummate wolf in sheep’s clothing, and she, by the name of “Angela”, the most beautiful angel of Light I could have known. My friend, mentor, and “sister in Christ”, with a pit viper’s tongue, a knife in her hand, and a smile on her face as she plunged it into my back.
Indeed, it was my darkest hour to discover what really lied beneath the surface of two of the most truly evil “things” I’ve ever encountered. How starved these vile creatures must have been that my heart became meals for his very small affect and her insignificant, insecure and thirsty, insincere ego.
WHAT LIES BENEATH
Take a breath. Hold it in. Start a fight. You won’t win. Had enough. Let’s begin. Never mind. I don’t care. All in all, you’re no good. You don’t cry like you should. Let it go if you could when love dies in the end. So, I’ll find what lies beneath your sick twisted smile as I lay underneath your cold, jaded eyes. Now you’ve turned the tide on me ’cause you’re so unkind. I will always be here for the rest of my life. Here we go. Does it hurt? Say goodbye to this world. I will not be undone. Come to life. It gets worse. … Don’t carry me under. You’re the Devil in disguise. God sing for the hopeless. I’m the one you left behind.
Despite the turmoil in my life otherwise, I had found my way to a new and different kind of church that was totally different from the Catholic religion I’d been born to and raised in and began exploring this new and intriguing “Christian faith”. I’d started attending Tommy Nelson’s Metro Bible study every Monday night at a Presbyterian church in Plano where I soon began making new, Christian friends and genuinely trying to head in a more positive direction. I truly loved my new “family” and all of the warmth and unconditional acceptance I’d found therein and it wasn’t long before I began feeling not only a stronger bond with Christ, but more so than that, just “stronger” all together.
It was March of 1996 when I finally asked Jesus into my heart and I took every opportunity to attend church functions and Bible studies, which of course put a strain on my relationship with John. We were spending less time together and he appeared to be somewhat threatened by my burgeoning mental wealth and time spent with many new friends. Things were also getting better with my family, and my ex-husband and I were fast developing a healthier relationship for our son’s sake. This, too, threatened John, and he became jealous of certain bonds that were being strengthened and renewed. Remember, when our relationship had begun, I had almost completely severed myself from all of them, which of course made me vulnerable outside influences. John had all but ridden up on a white horse to “rescue me” from what he had begun to convince me was a toxic, emotionally abusive, and unsympathetic family.
In the meantime, I foolishly believed I “loved” him, and indeed, I did truly care for him, but at the same time, I was very confused. I could feel myself being pulled apart at the seams in too many directions to quantify, and the fact that he would continually mock my newfound faith and friendships wasn’t helping at all.
The greatest irony in all of this was that later that year John became involved with a church group of his own and had even started attending some Bible studies with me. My friends were becoming his friends and things were looking up! We were talking about marriage, he had shown me the receipt for the ring he’d claimed to have already purchased, and had even taken my parents to dinner to ask for their blessing. If only I had known what truly lied beneath his facade and that I’d be dealing with this hoovering narcissist for virtually the entirely of my coming life.
RESCUE ME
Walking in circles just to see how far I go gets redundant for me again. I follow the path burned by all those come and gone by the wind that blows. Won’t you please, won’t you please rescue me? Don’t You leave, don’t You ever leave my side. Send in the doctor please, I believe I have bad news, this man is bloody, and his heart is bruised. We can fix him Lord, we can fix his broken heart, but can we prevent him coming apart? Now it seems like the changing shade again, burning embers light the edge around the flames.
I headed off to college in Corsicana, Texas, which was a welcomed and necessary escape from the scene at dear ole Allen High. At college, no one really seemed to care about the color of my skin, as everyone was just so different. Different colors, creeds, and backgrounds … different Gods, and diverse perspectives. It was there that I realized I was only a tiny piece of this multi-cultured tapestry of life, and it was also there, during my freshman year, that I met my future husband.
Dear GOD, was he good looking! Solidly chiseled, six foot two, 200 pounds, and deep green eyes to get lost in! We met at the local YMCA, and after many months of cat and mouse began dating andcontinued dating once I graduated and transferred to another college in north Texas.
My little sister had finally caught up with me and began her freshman year at the samecollegeas me. We lived together in our own apartment, an experience I’ll always treasure.
By then, however, I’d developed a full-blown eating disorder, and at one dropped down to a 100lb size zero. My obliterated self-esteem had finally caught up with me and I’d gone almost an entire year without keeping a meal down.
My family tried to help me, but I was much weaker than my “dragon“. No one, including myself, understood what my disease was really about in the first place, which not only didn’t help, but ultimately just perpetuated my self-mutilation. After being hospitalized and intensely counseled, I dropped out of school mid junior year so I could go back home and recover, which I did, or at least I thought I did, the Christmas of 1990.
As for the guy? Sometimes I’m ashamed of how I insinuated myself into every aspect of his life in what could probably be compared to stalking. That January, after a bit of coaxing by my father, he asked me to marry him. My mom, sister, and I spent the next ten months planning our “fairytale” wedding for which no expense was spared.
We were married on October 19, 1991. Things were relatively simple for us back then. He worked a warehouse in Corsicana and planned to becoming a fireman. I became a paralegal in downtown Dallas and loved it. We made the cutest little home and began our life together.
In being honest, I was young and somewhat spoiled at the time, such that looking back, I realize that I was so busy preparing for the wedding that I completely overlooked preparing for being wed. Even so, it seemed as though we loved each other enough and were relatively happy. Things might have been just fine, but what came next became the catalyst for almost two full decades of struggling in the dark with a mental illness that had been manifesting in my fragile psyche since childhood.
STAINED GLASS WINDOW
Just beneath the rafters in a church of stone laid a stained glass window in the attic all alone. A work of art forgotten – a treasure thrown away. Taken from the sunlight, it was just a useless frame. Oh the things in life we take for granted, the things of wonder we could know. I want to be illuminated, full of Heaven’s light, shining through my life. Let the window of my heart reveal your love. I took the stained glass window and held it to the light … years of hidden glory reappeared before my eyes. Every brilliant color glowing like a fire. Full of revelation and created to inspire., Thirsty for your morning sun. Let your love in me unfold, all this beauty to behold. There’s a stained glass window in the soul of man – a pattern of perfection that was made with holy hands. With the light of heaven pouring through each pain, truth in all it’s splendor is revealed and will remain. {Clay Crosse}
We moved to Allen from Providence, Rhode Island, in 1979, back when Allen’s population was a handful of thousands. My mother, sister and I were three of only a handful of Hispanics when we arrived, which soon became one of the deepest and most toxic roots of my lacking self-esteem.
I’ll never forget the day when a gym teacher of mine, Coach Spann, made his way to the middle of the floor. As he reached for the mic to call us to attention, a very cruel girl all but leveled me in front of a gymnasium full of my peers during one of my deepest childhood traumas:
Look how Spic and Spann these floors are!
I remember that humiliation like a million tiny needles stinging my leather brown hands and feet as if it were happening this instant. In my mind, it seemed as though everyone was laughing at me, and all I wanted was to crawl under a rock and die. The funny thing is, at the time I didn’t even know what it meant. “Spic? What’s a spic?” It wasn’t until the friend that was sitting beside me leaned in closely, as if to shelter me from the trauma that I didn’t even realize I was experiencing and asked if I was okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?
A spic is a Mexican or wetback. She was making fun of you for being so dark.
I don’t remember how I finally made it from the gym floor to the bathroom but do remember staring into the mirror and crying. It was on that day that I began to despise myself and the skin I lived in, and though I did manage to have a handful of truly good friends until graduating high school in 1987 (many of whom after almost 40 years are with me still today), that moment scarred me for years to come.
Thank God for my family back then. At home, I was “safe”, with a roof over my head and my Mom never more than a heartbeat away. Looking back, I can’t remember a moment that she missed. Not one single lunch, class party, field trip or game, and never a “latched door” for us to come home to. From what I could see at that point in my life and for many years to come, my mother would have torn out her own beating heart for the sake of those that she loved despite her outwardly gentle appearance.
Of course, then there was Julie, not only my sister, but one of my truest, lifelong friends. She’s been my rock, my sounding board, and one of the only people in this world who’s ever truly understood me. So close are we that over the years when I’ve heard people talking about their sibling rivalries, I’ve been perplexed. Julie is everything that I am not, and together, we make a whole person! She, too, over the years has suffered many of the same prejudices as I, only her much more so since she’s always been so much darker than me. Through it all, though, we have always stuck together and never once in my life has she abandoned me!
… and so it began … the real story behind the fallout of my own life:
It was a gloomy Sunday afternoon in mid-April of 1979. My sister and I were two blissfully ignorant little girls playing on “the rock shaped like a whale” in the front yard of our home in Johnston, Rhode Island. Mom was in the house, more than likely preparing Sunday dinner, while my dad was at my grandparents’ just a few miles across town for the standing “Sunday cawfee” with his brothers. The next thing you know, he came barreling into our driveway with a screeching halt, engine running, driver’s door open, as he ran inside the house then came running right back out with a lead pipe in his hand, at which point he jumped back into the car and peeled out headed to “somewhere”.
The next thing you know, my mother came running out the front door after him while frantically directing me and my sister to hurry up and get in her car, which we of course did without question, at which point we were flying down the street at only God knows how many miles per hour headed to “somewhere” we weren’t sure of, but from what we could tell, we were headed in the direction of my grandparents.
Yup, that’s where we were headed alright, as were what appeared to be the entire fleet of police cars, firetrucks, and ambulances that were also headed in that same direction. Yup, that’s where they were going, too! As we approached the entrance to my grandparents’ plat, she quickly realized the chaos that had ensued, ended up having to park her car more than a block away, then just started running towards my grandparents’ with me and my little sister just running along behind her. When we finally made it to their driveway, this is what I remember …
My father and all three of his brothers were at fists literally beating each other half to death in my grandparents’ front yard while my Grandpa was standing in the middle of it all hollering for them to stop and trying desperately to pull them apart. Meanwhile, there was Ida, inside their house but just behind the screen door, dawning the consummate Italian grandmother’s kitchen smock, a smirk upon her face, standing staunchly with her arms crossed and resting on her midsection.
My mother was screaming as the police, too, were trying to break the brothers apart. And of course, the many nosy neighbors who had all come out of their houses were standing amidst the breaks between all the emergency vehicles just watching it all go down.
Me and my sister? We just stood there watching everything, not at all realizing that life as we’d ever known it had just come to a bloody and embattled end.
By the time it was over, my father and his brothers had been separated into their own corners, and although I’m not 100% certain of this fact, I do believe that each of them had been arrested and taken to jail. Well, at least I know my father was.
My mother ended up bailing him out that night and the rest is but my “New England history”. Within a short couple of weeks our house went on the market and sold, then my parents packed themselves, me, my sister, our two Doberman’s, and what small amount of belongings they could fit into a very small U-Haul trailer that followed us down the road to “Goodbye Rhode Island … goodbye home … goodbye family … goodbye Grandpa, aunts, uncles, cousins, church, school, teachers, friends … Goodbye EVERYTHING we had ever known … don’t know where the FUCK we’re actually going, but we’re DONE!”
And then? It was done, and all I can remember was driving for the next few days … and driving and driving and driving. I think the plan was to just keep going towards California, but my mother had family in Texas at the time who we stopped in to visit, rest, and reboot from the long haul.
So, we stopped in for what were only supposed to be “a couple of days”, and? We never left. Texas was our home now. Like it or not. Love it or leave it. This was the way it was. We’d run away from everything with the very first of the fallout kids to proceed the line of “fallouts” that would come …
FALLOUT
Another rebel runs against the grain. A loner is born. He’s filled with anguish but deep within he’s dying every day to find his way. He is lost. So consumed. Can you feel him somewhere in the fallout? He’s someone just like you who’s lost to find the truth. Can you hear him? From the fire he cries out for the answer to be shown as he dares to walk the fallout on his own. So frustrated. He walks the line alone. Courage sets him apart. He is so faithless. All he once embraced he now disowns. He let it go. All the while he still waits. Can you feel him somewhere in the fallout? He’s someone just like you who’s lost to find the truth. Can you hear him? From the fire he cries out for the answer to be shown as he dares to walk the fallout on his own.
{Alter Bridge}
“25 Rotary Drive” … aka “The Day Of The Sunday Fallout”!
Although I’m only four years old at the moment, how little do I know that a beautiful, tremendous MACHINE that is running the race of his life today is going to become such a bittersweet, beautiful, and beloved part of my story:
If there were just one moment in time I could travel back to and personally witness, it would be the Belmont Stakes when that magnificent, TREMENDOUS machine defied every odd stacked against him and made a mockery of all the people drunk on SHAMpain up in the crowd. If you’ve never seen the movie or read about “The Horse That God Built”, do it! It’s so much more than just a movie about a horse. It’s the story of what can happen when one living creature truly believes in another and how faith can make miracles out of anyone. That’s what made OUR little family what it is today, by the way … a miracle of FAITH! I’m so damn lucky to be surrounded by people I ‘ll never stop believing in as I watch them run their races with no reins!
I was born in Providence, Rhode Island, and outside looking in, our family was picture perfect. My sister and I were raised by parents who chose not to divorce despite the multitude of odds stacked against them and years of turmoil and dysfunction that besmudged our family tree. My mother bore the brunt of childrearing, which as it turned out was not probably for the best and the primary reason I have manywonderful memories of New England. She did the best she could to make a safe environment for us. She suffered, struggled and sacrificed in every possible regard for the sake of everyone under our roof, most especially my father, and certainly for me and my sister. She was there for everything she could manage to be present for considering that she worked so hard at a career she’d built over years with Texas Instruments and Raytheon, and through that career she made sure my sister and I had all of the things we would need to get out there and survive, not the least of which was college educations that she paid for on her own. She took each of her roles as wife, mother, daughter and daughter-in-law as dutifully and faithfully as she possibly could under any and all possible circumstances. At one point in our life my father’s mother had even come to live with us after my Grandpa passed away and thereto mom took the brunt of her overall care and well-being, which I have to tell you is something I still don’t understand to this day, because my grandmother was a mostly cruel and selfish human being who cared nothing for my mother whatsoever, yet happily and selfishly enjoyed the many comforts and caterings to her every whim that my mother alone provided her alongside everything else she had on her already full plate at any given time without any regard or consideration for her overall care and well-being. What Ida wanted, Ida got, no matter the cost to my mother, and this was just how it was.
My mother didn’t exactly have a fairytale childhood much less was there an appearance of anything “picture perfect and charmed”. Born the second oldest of eight children, she’d been raising kids since she was old enough to change a diaper by the time she’d met my father. Her family demographic was probably near poverty level and I know for a fact that she never owned a store bought dress or new pair of shoes until after she married my father. Her Catholic faith was very strong though, and at one point she’d even considered becoming a nun. Life took her down a different path however where she would stumble upon the man and his family that would test her faith forever.
He was the youngest of four boys, born eleven years after the last. With a headstrong iron will, despite the psychological abuse he suffered at his mother’s hands, he managed to create a life filled with the most beautiful things for us out of literally nothing at all. Over the years, many have come to know him as a Midas Touch, as everything he’s ever touched has turned to gold. His father, Ernie, was one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. He was loving and kind, caring and thoughtful, and all about his family. The man was a saint by even the harshest standards and I’d be hard pressed to find any shortcomings in his character. In the 18 years I knew him, I never once heard him raise his voice or a fist, and never once heard him say anything unkind about another. Which is not to say that he never ever said them, it’s just that if he did, he never let his impressionable grandchildren see it.
To this day I smile when I remember the “worst word” I ever heard him say: “Garl darnit!” This was his version of profanity, and it took a fair amount of anger or frustration to get him there. My Grandpa was the polar opposite of any man I’d ever known until the day I met my late husband, but I’ll get to that much later. Sufficed to say, my beautiful Grandpa was then and still remains one of the brightest stars that has led my pathway from the sky. The legacy he left behind was one of true love and kindness and the memories he left are completely unsoiled in my heart and soul. Of course, he was but a mortal man, and with that it is certain that just like all of us he’d had his moments, grievances, “grudges” and maybe even “yelling, screaming and profanity”, but as any truly good man and father should have, he was wise enough to shield the younger eyes that were watching and ears that were listening to anything less than truly impeccable words. Little did I know that he’d set a standard by which to judge any other human man against so deep inside my psyche that after his passing, it would take years for me to both understand and finally find that man.
Ida, my father’s mother, as we later found out, hid a dark childhood secret of her own, and thus led a miserable existence. Even from the grave she managed to pit her sons against each other throughout the entirety of their lives by manipulating them with her contingent based system of affection and reward. If she didn’t get what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted it, the regard to her sons was always the same:
I’ll fix you! I wash my hands of you! You’re nothing to me! I’m done with you! YOU’RE NO LONGER A PART OF THIS FAMILY!
Although my grandparents were not necessarily wealthy, Grandpa was a hard worker and they never wanted for anything. This suited my grandmother well. Unfortunately, that “what have you done for me lately” mindset funneled its way through to our own family home and ultimately almost cost me my sanity and life. Again, I’ll get into that later. Sufficed to say that in my lifetime, up to and including my very darkest of hours, I, too, have fallen prey to that familial gift that never seems to keep on giving and had all but blackened and asphyxiated our family tree. Dozens of times since as old as I can remember I’ve heard the very words that my father and his brothers grew up hearing from their own mother’s mouth:
I’ll fix you … I wash my hands of you … You’re nothing to me … I’m done with you … YOU ARE NO LONGER A PART OF MY LIFE!
It wasn’t until I was in my late 30’s that I began to recognize that my “picture perfect” childhood was nothing but a farce, and now I’m going to speak my truths, no matter the cost, because at this point I have NOTHING left to lose but the lovely Venom suit that’s been wrapped around my body from the moment I drew my first breath. Welcome to the pages of my life …
PAGES
What happens to a man when he spills his heart on a page and he watches words flow away then his feelings lie on the page alone there waiting for someone who cares to read them, to open their eyes to see them, to see if they can make his thoughts their own, to find out that maybe your life’s not perfect? Maybe it’s not worth what he gives away? You can see that this broken soul is bleeding. So, you can see your feelings inside yourself and wander through my heart. Letting you see through me now only consumes me. Forget your pain … you watched me fall apart. What happens to a soul when it’s trapped inside his emotions and all of these words he’s spoken, they bind him to the life he’s left behind, and every new step he takes he knows that he might not make it to all of these dreams that he has yet to find?
The Diary Of My Perfection 