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  • Love is a fucking bitch. It takes a competent, capable, independent woman and turns her into a self-doubting, paranoid, fearful little girl constantly looking under her bed for the things that go "bump" in the night. But the monsters, at least, are imaginary. The hurt that love inflicts is so very real. It can’t be imagined away as little girls grow up; if anything, the pain becomes that much more raw as fairy tales prove to be lies and dreams are dashed to tiny irreparable pieces.


    Loving is painful.
    Out of control; I'm helpless.
    Hurts too much to care.

    But the beauty of dead dreams lies in the birth they give to new hopes and wishes. Strength can be found in the aftermath of weakness; tiny irreparable pieces can be glued into a mosaic. Something once broken – plates, pottery, hearts – may never return to its former glory, but something stronger, something prettier, something far more glorious can be built from the wreckage.


    Love takes prisoners;
    Leaves hurt, scars. But from ashes
    Rises, maybe, hope.
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