How Is It I Know This Little

I've Done Without Doing Things, Like Sleeping And Eating, But I Need To Write.

It Isn't The Height That Scares Me - The Height Makes Me Feel Alive With Energy, Every Organ And Vessel And Muscle In My Body Singing At The Same Pitch. Then I Realize What It Is. It's Him. Something About Him Makes Me Feel Like I Am About To Fall. Or Turn To Liquid. Or Burst Into Flames.

There's Really No Way To Be Perfect. Perfectionism Is A Silly Trait To Have, So In A Lot Of Ways That Inspired The World Of 'divergent,' In Which Everyone Is Striving Toward That Ideal And Falling Short Of It.

Noise And Activity Are The Refuges Of The Bereaved And The Guilty.

A Sob Racks My Body Again, And He Wraps His Arms Around Me So Tightly I Find It Difficult To Breathe, But It Doesn't Matter. My Dignified Weeping Gives Way To Full-on Ugliness, My Mouth Open And My Face Contorted And Sounds Like A Dying Animal Coming From My Throat. If This Continues I Will Break Apart, And Maybe That Would Be Better, Maybe It Would Be Better To Shatter And Bear Nothing.