Russian doll.

I've been reading my past.
I was searching for some solace or relief on the belief that maybe I have been or have done more.
Turns out my voice has always been hoarse and I never knew how to scream.
My bad memory gave me the habit of keeping words, saving them  
so maybe they could save me,  
but there's nothing new.
I thought I'd see something different, some proof that I wasn't born broken  
but this time the russian doll had only smaller, less experienced versions of the same tragedy.
I think maybe I love too much in a world that loves too little.  
Or maybe I don't love at all.
What will I think another decade from now?