One day you’ll find out all the awful things I’ve done realize how I’ve changed and how these events (/mistakes) have changed me. I’ve come to realize you’re perfect a little late, after my phase of stupidness and attempts to find myself. It wasn’t right, and I realize that, but if you knew, you’d never listen to the reasoning behind it, and that’s fine. You’ll no longer love me. I’ll understand, it just won’t hurt any less to lose you. I've already lost myself to this manic depression.


















