I want to know about your first kiss and if you still remember their last name. I want to hear about all the ways you have been left behind. And if you curl up into a ball in your sadness or wear black clothes because you're mourning your heart. I want to hear the stories your mother has told you, and the last time you laughed until your insides ached. See, I want to know all the ways you have been hard on yourself, and about the times you've been unkind. Would you let the ones that hurt you in again or would you stand in front of a moving train? Tell me about all the pancakes you've had, and all the times your body weight only consisted of water because the hurt seemed to overflow. I want to know about your brother, how he used to hold you in his arms when you were young and pushed you away when the world got hard. I want to know about all the times that you have cried and thought that it would never end. I want to know the names of the people you thought you could not live without, and how you did live after they moved to the dusty drawer with all your other soulmates. I want to know why you don't believe in love at first sight, and why you couldn't love a stranger? Was it because your welcome mat is still buried under the ashes of the last one? Would you rather have leftover pizza from a week ago or pour burning coffee down your throat to forget what she tasted like? I wanna know about all the times that you could not breathe, and why God is only in your vocabulary when you're exhausted. Tell me about all the things you wished you never blamed your mother for, and why you cried for days over a father you never thought you would miss. I want to know why you tremble when your sadness has become bigger than the world and who led you to believe it could get this far? Why do you hesitate to let people in? But have their names tattooed in permanent bliss?