You would think that a broken heart could be mended,
All broken things can.
Or, you would think that it would break further,
Like a shattered mirror.
My heart didn't do either,
it turned hard,
and heavy,
and now my heart is a stone.
When I try to feel, my heart is unyielding,
It was once human but now isn't.
Not mended, but not broken, just
Dead.
Dead, like the way I feel
every night,
my heart filled with dread.
Dead, like when,
sometimes,
when I'm all alone,
I will peek inside,
allow it to soften a moment.
And then, once the pain and years of being unwanted,
a troublemaker,
a pest,
an outcast,
come flooding back to me,
wave after wave of sorrow floods me,
and I have no choice but to
push the feelings deep inside
where no one will find them.
I can't bear the pain,
sorrow,
loss,
that fills my heart
and makes it hard,
a sharp, heavy stone.
