Perhaps this is it.
I have been living wrong all along.
This infinite road of grief is budding inside of me telling me something in a language I don't speak. I forget I'm carrying a double-edged sword and when I press the blade into you, it cuts me too. I touch my hair and it feels like someone else's. I'm scratched by my own nails and broken by my unkind words and you think you can hurt me.
Say, can you be more bitter than I've ever been to me?