I’d share my story, but it’d break your damn heart.
I wouldn’t leave out any horrid details, but it’d tear you the fuck apart.
And when I share a small part, I just can’t stand the look in people’s eyes.
It’s as if they become sad, and I can see that a little piece of their soul dies.
For my story is not of glory, nor of anything good.
It’s not as if I don’t want to speak up, it’s just that I don’t think I should.
Each waking moment – a living nightmare.
And yet, I still find myself unable to share.