Writing heals. Maybe.

So I'm to write about what hurts? Let's, then.

It hurts when I cannot find peace at home.
It hurts not to be honest enough to say what has killed my soul little by little.
It hurts when I take the courage to finally say what it is and be labeled based in all the wrong and vain and futile judgement.
It hurts when people take me for granted, when my supposedly companions say tons of caring words yet act totally the opposite when nobody's watching.
It tears my essence when I have to struggle in a world full of sick thoughts all around me.
I'm not made of steel. I'm flesh and bones and injuries. I only pray to heaven to hold on at least until my kids are grown-up and enough capable to live by their own. That's my only wish.