This.
Through all the heartache. The numbness that’s plagued me for the past five years.
This is why I don’t regret loving who I’ve loved. Because it’s all part of me. And knowing I’m capable of so much passion and love is a wonderful thing.
My muse needs to be myself, and it always was, for what I write spews forth from me, not from them. All the depth and bliss, the short-breath-ed moments, it came from me. It wasn’t her or him or them. It was me.
A Burd in Flight 