I haven't quite figured out yet why it is that the ones in which I want to love me the most are the ones who run as fast as the speed of light from my open heart.
And who gave me the right to convince myself that pain doesn't metastasize, it does, trust me once you see the clouds turn grey that is only the start of the storm.
For some reason I keep thinking I'll be a map of the sky that people will spend years on figuring out wether constellations are made with my stars connecting to create stories when really I'm just comets crashing into a mess of curly black hair and blood shot hazel eyes.
As colors I can't comprehend fall out of broken heart strings I won't stop masking pain with hurt and i keep thinking if I find the perfect synonym for heart break it'll disappear when really it just shifts the ground beneath my feet.
Time is a terrifying thing, with that the only choices I have are to go through time in the human race suffocating with a beating heart or stop time, stop heart, and finally breathe.