Nobody can break me,
But myself,
And I do it so carefully,
To build a shelf,
Filled with stories of the lonely,
Pages of truth known only to me,
For I am the one they know,
To own the barely beating heart
That pumps ink instead of blood;

I break it on the daily,
To spill words so familiar,
Yet foreign like careless whisper,
Like the sweet nothings he once gave me,
Or the promise he broke chance after chance;

Still my heart held on,
Ink filled to the brim,
Flowing through the tips,
Coursing through every vein,
At the touch of my bony fingers,
Dancing away on screens,
Or the clickity clacking,
From typing bits of him,
But more of me,
And how I never knew,
That truth is this heart,
It bleeds free,
It bleeds true,
But not in shades of red,
Just black and blue.

@byizn