Her words were thrown in the air.
I stood there.
I walked home.
I unlocked the door.
I stripped off my damp coat, unstrung my scarf.
I collapse and sit on the cold, cold wood floors.
As I do so, that’s when my metaphorical heart splinters into the tiniest of pieces.
Anatomically real hearts don’t break, they cannot realistically do so.
Which is precisely why this is so ******* hard for it to heal back.
As you are fighting against a beautifully lucid and meticulously choreographed illusion.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Her words were thrown in the air.
I stood there.
I walked home.
I unlocked the door.
I stripped off my damp coat, unstrung my scarf.
I collapse and sit on the cold, cold wood floors.
As I do so, that’s when my metaphorical heart splinters into the tiniest of pieces.
Anatomically real hearts don’t break, they cannot realistically do so.
Which is precisely why this is so ******* hard for it to heal back.
As you are fighting against a beautifully lucid and meticulously choreographed illusion.
