Growing up in broken homes makes you no stranger to heartbreak.

We often hold back the reigns to see how things begin to play,

Before diving with all our strength. Because too often we’ve been let down.


Broken promises. Broken mirrors and doors. Holes in walls and in floors.

And often times it doesn’t matter how many tears are shed.

How many screams are throw into cycle of white noise in this house.

They’re lost in all the rage.


Scream first. Hit next. Ask last. Isn’t that how we resolve conflict?

The pain of memories cut over and over. But nothing compares.

Surprisingly, regardless of how many years of emotional torture,

The real heartbreak comes from surviving.


Ingrained behaviors. Cycles of depression. Unexplained tears and moments of anger.

I’m sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.

Over and over again. It loses meaning. I know.


Some days I’m too confident for my own good.

Skipping through laughter and eyes sparkling.

Most days I’m struggling to find an answer.

Drawing confidence from “selfies” and “likes”.


Even still, some days I’m completely taken over.

Succumbing to lying in bed, curtains drawn. Sleeping the day away.

It consumes me.


“The struggle is real…”

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