I was on the edge, always. I was laughing – much louder and more frequently than anybody else. I burnt out quickly, so that sometimes, halfway through a coffee date, I would have to excuse myself. I didn’t love. My love wasn’t real. My love was a facade to prove that I could love, or that I could be loved in return. I sipped whilst giggling whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

My happiness was so fragile even the pin prick of a needle would shatter it. My life was a series of earthquakes; knocking the air from my lungs as I tried to grab onto anything sound, anything secure. I never had the strong heart or clear mind needed to weather the storms.

I was on edge, always. Standing on the edge of a great precipice and I wondered if I had the courage to jump. Sometimes I swear I could. I was laughing, much louder and more frequently than anyone else. And often, I wondered if I had any reason to. 

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