You didn't mean to run away. You weren't using your heart. You weren't using your head. I'm your bulletproof vest. You'll buy my casket. The pallbearers' chests are filled with the heaviest hearts of anyone. Guaranteed to fall apart. It was never meant to end like this but here we are. Could be my last burning breath, but that's ok, we're ok. Let me run. I gave you all the best of me and all the worst is in the grave. Needlessly nostalgic. Survivor’s guilt is a death sentence. Please don't try to make sense of a fucked up tradition: to have and to hold the heaviest heart of anyone. Are you ok?
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