“You started the mosaic out of me. You just found the right pieces to put into place. I was your masterpiece you were determined to finish. Soon you made me into a museum full of mosaics, of miracles, and other happy things. I was covered in colors, and started helping with your masterpiece too. But then you shattered the ones that were simply glass and refused to put them back together. Instead, you turned me into a museum of tattered masterpieces, of tragedies, and other broken things. You pried my heart open like the doors of closed convenience store, not taking one single thing, but destroying everything instead. You left me like an abandoned house, a ghost town with only a resident. You left me for road to kill. The thought of your touch gives me third degree burns and you left a crime scene where my heart used to be.”
“I told the cops you had killed somebody. They asked me for a proof. They asked me for the crime scene. But the crime scene was me. I told them you ripped me. How you ripped out my heart and burned me and destroyed my mind. They told me it wasn’t true, but it was.”
“You killed the person I used to be”
Excerpt from the book i might or i might not write
It doesn’t matter how bad you think you are at something. There’s always going to be someone who loves what you create. In the same breath, it doesn’t matter how good you think you at something.
There’s always going to be someone who hates what you create. You don’t need to be everyone’s cup of tea. Everytime you pick up that pen or that brush or whatever it is, you’re improving. There’s no way for you to get worse.