"How are you?", she asks
her eyes gathered upon sincere worry
"Fine," I reply with a tight grit smile mask,
which was unrealistic and lying --
for this I say sorry.

"Are you OK?", as he gazes across my striped red arm,
scabbed with souvenirs from the past;
"Oh, it was my cat," awakening from my drooling daze,
quickly fixing my mismatched clothing,
tugging on my cast.

"What are you writing?", they stare at my laptop,
I tone my music deaf as I turned around to witness a dozen
different eyes locked on my screen as I switched it off,
realisation dawned upon me
that my terrible situation had worsen.

"What are you doing?!", they shout from below,
they stole and gobbled up my happiness like a cannibalistic eater,
"You can't help me, not anymore," I whisper through the willow,
'Take my soul and rip out my heart'
-- to my dearest Grim Reaper.

For some a heartbreak is worth a fifth of *****.
Others, a pint of ice cream.
For me, it was lots of **** last time.
But, you, you're a different kind of hurt.
The one that keeps you up at night.
The kind of heartbreak you can feel in your lungs.
Each breath becoming increasingly more difficult to take.
You are the kind of heartbreak that you never truly get over.
You are the kind of heartbreak that feels like it can only ever healed with a bullet.