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Anivas Forrester Mar 2018
I am afraid.
Afraid
that one day,
when all is said and done
and I am grey and old,
that the only stories I'll tell
will be ones of heartbreak and desperation
of the flesh.
Anivas Forrester Mar 2018
"Sorry, but..."
The beginning of a simple message,
and the beginning of the end.
End of all familiarity and home,
end of possibilities and blue skies,
end to all expectations and sunrise...

Clouds cover the sun,
coldness takes over.
Breath hitches in your coarse throat,
wetness builds in your eyes,
as your heart breaks down.

"Sorry, but..."
A phrase that has become a frequent visitor in your life.
A phrase heard over and over again
like a broken record.
But despite the pain of it all,
you never learn.

With each utterance of the damning phrase,
the words pierce your flesh even further.
The end of all things...
And the frustrating part?
There's nothing you can do to stop it.

So, you smile,
salty water dripping from your eyes,
chest heavy,
wind whistling through the hole where your heart once was,

"I understand."

You text back,
hands shaking,
eyes fixated on the two words
displayed on the small LED screen.
But, sorry,
it doesn't mean that I'm not hurting.
All you'll ever see are two check marks next to the message, you'll see cold, black print encapsulated in a message bubble, but you'll never see the pain in the other person's eyes.
Anivas Forrester Mar 2018
O' young one.
How long has it been,
since you last knew
the colour of the sky,
the smell of freshly-cut grass,
the sound of laughter,
the touch of another,
the feeling of warmth,
and being alive?

When was the last time
you said,
"I love you."
and meant it?
Felt happy,
and genuinely felt it?
How long...
Are you going to continue living this way?
How long until you decay?

There is another way,
just take it day by day...
Sometimes we get so caught up in our own lives that we forget to stop and appreciate the little things in life. Sometimes, it's the small, simple things in life which bring us bliss.
Anivas Forrester Mar 2018
Time of death:
3:44.
When you told me you don't love me anymore.
Place of death:
The park where we met,
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
I remember the dreaded words which escaped your lips,
the heat in your words,
the look on your face,
as I took a metaphorical bullet to the chest;
it hurt like ****.
Cause of death:
You.
When you stabbed me in the heart for the first
and last time.
A fatal blow.
But in the coroner's office,
all the report will ever show is:
time of death:
3:44.
Cause of death:
Trauma to the chest.
When your heart gets broken by someone, it feels like you've been struck in the chest. The air feels like it's been knocked right out your lungs and you feel as though you can't breathe. You feel a mixture of emotions all blurred into one mess. You play the final exchange in your head over and over again, and each time it gets harder and harder. Heartbreak. It feels like you've been stabbed in the back and shot in the chest all at once.

— The End —