I have days when I am at a loss for words, when I have a trillion things to express but not a single sentence to speak. On days such as this I think to myself why I feel so. I weep silently in the dark and will myself to search for the light, to wipe away the tears and smile in case someone is watching. I know why I feel this way and it makes all the sense in the world and still none at all. I once felt special and now I do not, I once felt loved in a way deep and piercing and now I do not. I wasn’t a candle in the forest guiding a lost traveler through a lonely path, I was the sun in the sky illuminating the world for all those who were a part of me. I wasn’t content, I was happy. I wasn’t sweet, I was genuine. I didn’t love, I adored and demanded the same of others. I felt special even when I was alone, because I was sure I was always inhabiting someone’s thoughts, I know I was playfully roaming behind someone’s smile. I don’t know what happened. I am still loved, I know this. I am still all the same things I was, the problem is that I am a dulled out version of all of it. I am living out version of my own happiness that has grown calloused over. He tells me I am different than any girl he has ever met, he says I am better. He says I haven’t changed, that others have, he loves me. When I have been wronged he assures me I am right. When I need a chest to cry on his is always there, just waiting, if all the tears from broken heart past were to suddenly reappear he might fear of drowning. He still tells me I am special. He (my brother) is lying, not to me and not on purpose, he doesn’t realize he is lying but he is. He can see it too, he can see that I shine less brightly even at my brightest now, he can tell that I am hardly the thought before the smiles of those I love now. He knows as well as I do that I am, for lack of a better way of saying it, incomplete. I am a the book you picked up off the shelf one day, what a lovely cover it had, crisp and blue and electric. It had such an enticing title, caught your eye and held it. So you read and were captivated, page after page you could not seem to put it down and this went on for so long that you hardly realized that your reading had slowed, that you were reading a page a day instead of a chapter. You stopped putting the book in a safe place to keep it out of harms way and just lay it where it landed each night. You didn’t even notice that the cover began to tatter, that the pages were frayed and soggy, almost as if the book had always been that way. Then one day you misplaced it and forgot why you ever even picked it up. Once in a while you come by it and think to yourself “oh hey! here’s my book I really have to finish reading it” but you don’t, and life goes on. It goes on with or without me. I have known for a long time that the people I love, who love me back, never seem to quite do so as I do. I am constantly doing “too much”, I am constantly “asking too much”. I set “too high a standard” for people. “Not everyone is as thoughtful as you babe” that sentence alone could kill me some days. Everything seems like a complaint, every time i ask for more it seems as though I do the little things I do just to get something in return, and in a way I guess I do. I expect that every person who loves another will have them in mind at all times. That if I write pretty letters I will get pretty letters back. I always believed that you reap what you sow, but the last few years have shown me that just because I send love and good intentions not everyone else will too. I’ve learned that you simply cant change people, they maybe sweet or they may not, maybe they are romantic and maybe they are not. I can either accept it or walk away it is unfair to ask something from someone that they simply do not have . After all is said and done nothing has changed, no one has changed. My feelings make so much sense and none at all. I will keep wanting and wishing and waiting, all in the hopes that one day I can feel complete, I can have a new cover and I will be worth the read.