I loved. That was always my story. I loved. Probably too much. Always pouring from a cup that was never replenished. I loved. I never looked back. I never regretted it. Because I wouldn’t be me, if I didn’t put my all into it. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try until my heart was black and blue. But I was never loved back in the right way. In the way that took me serious. In the way where they actually believed the things that I would stay. It was evident in the way I was never chosen. Evident in the way no one stood by me. Evident in the way everyone just let me go. I loved. But did it mean anything? Did it even matter? I loved… hell, I still love. But in the end it’s always me that I see shatter.