I know you didn't want a book, but I'm writing you one anyway. In
all honesty, I'd pick you every flower in the world and heap them
on top of you if a blanket of flowers would provide a comforting
warmth for your aching soul and body. I don't know if this will
help, because I understand how it is to be at a point where not
even the most comforting of words can soothe the scratching of
the demon claws in your skull - but maybe someday you'll look
back at this and smile and know that I was right. I really hope
I'd like to paint you with every lovely word in the world - because no lovely word would ever conflict with your being - until you were totally covered in paint. Even then, there'd still be so many words to spare.
I'd like to trim away your ugly thoughts with secateurs like the wilting petals of tired roses and discard them so that your beautiful flowers could grow without the smothering, choking fingers of the ghosts of yesterdays you're so desperate to forget pulling your buds apart.
Please don't hurt yourself, beautiful. Please don't shield yourself from the sun. I know it's hard, darling. But it was always hard.