Feelings, talking, sharing are overrated words people need in their lives to confirm a sense of happiness, turning broken houses with flowers planted in tires outside into a version of some fairytale that lied, so I believe we should feel as little as possible, speaking only when necessary, sharing nothing of your soul, protect it, because promises aren't carved in stone. Broken, they're etched into skin. I'll let my paint peel away showing rotten boards of my shack, weeds wildly making their own fence. This is the only normal I ever remembered, the only life I've known since death took them.