Burn the dresses, smash the photos, throw away the ring. Arms on the hips and stand tall like Superman against all the machine gun bullets shot on his bullet-proof suit. He has the suit, I don't have.
I'm more like, fling everything out as hard as the ligaments holding my bones.
I'm not as free as I wish to be. But I try to manage. Having gone through everything, I will try to smile, even the smile turns out to be a little awkward "eeeee". And this interval turns out to be therapeutic: sooth the mind, heart and soul. I'm at peace.
You are right all along, I should have listened to you. I just can't get over the fact that you are wiser than me. Now I salute you.
What could be worse than committing suicide? Being simply marry, or being a hooker?
Do you know the weight of sins of being a hooker and being committing suicide?
I think having no choice is the worse of life.
Now I try to read.
