Maybe

Maybe I'm not as strong as I think I am. Maybe the new me the people've seen is just a shell to protect what's so broken and shattered inside of me. Maybe the concealer that I put under my eyes was not put to correct my eyebags. Maybe the riddle that I wrote along the road is just a disguise after all. Maybe all the curse words I've shouted were the stop button of my tears. Maybe this is not a broken heart. Maybe this is a broken ego. Maybe I should've done it. Maybe I should've not started it. Maybe I should've stayed in the dark and carry my own luggages. Maybe all the quotes were wrong. Maybe all the quotes were right all along. Maybe best friends make the best lovers but maybe they were wrong too. Maybe Sylvia Plath was right all along, it's just us that won't understand. Maybe it's too complicated to explain. Maybe my shell is cracking. Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I just want to bury my head on my pillows and never see people again. Maybe I'm too picky. Maybe I'm just too girly. Maybe all the questions aren't necessary because I got the answers all along. Maybe I'm over thinking it. Maybe I need to over think this. Maybe I don't. Maybe I'm not broken, I've broken things.

Because there are three kinds of broken heart.

The first is when someone is reckless with your heart, and it breaks and it shatters in ways you never thought it could.

The second is when you break someone's heart because you'll never know pain like the type tht has you look into their eyes but they look away.

And the worst kind of heartbreak is the kind that comes along when you have to watch the person you love be happy with someone else.

I look away.

Because Charles Bukowski, I've found what I love and I've let it kill me. But yet again, you have to die for a numerous time to actually live.