I thought living dead girls couldn't feel pain, thought I was emptied out but I'm not, I'm not.

She became a story, one I have mostly forgotten. One I can't end because she died a long time ago.

I have been smashed and put back together so many times nothing works right. Nothing is where it should be, heavy thumping in my shoulder where my heart now beats.

And in the end blood and tears are alike because they stop too.

I remember asking myself one night, while I was curled up in the same old corner of my same old couch in tears yet again over the same old repetition of sorrowful thoughts, 'Is there ANYTHING about this scene you can change, Liz?' And all I could think to do was stand up, whle still sobbing, and try to balance on one foot in the middle of the living room. Just to prove that - while I couldn't stop the tears or change my dismal interior dialogue - I was not yet totally out of control: at least I could cry hysterically while balanced on one foot.

Friday was just filled with anger, not so much sadness. As the weekend went on, it just got sadder and tougher.