In your unfinished story,
the hopelessness
of too many blank pages
never to be filled,
has lodged itself
deeply into your soul
like a beastly splinter.
Sometimes you relish
the delusion of taking
sweet revenge,
by writing more
pleasant endings
to soothe your bruised ego.
Other times,
you are simply grateful for
how you were spared
the flash of disappointment
that follows
unfulfilled expectations.
Had to build a new heart— again.
The old one, unreliable thing,
got itself broken in the wake of
some tragedy or other.
Seems that this one organ
is a bit of a weak link
in an otherwise reliable,
perfectly sensible organism.
It likes to forget its primary
function, namely to pump blood,
instead favours getting involved
in counterproductive romance.
A shadow has settled
across your heart,
so dark, I am afraid
it can not be erased.
Red hot anger
has eaten away at you,
crippling you in ways
I can not even fathom.
Your torment is real,
your pain sincere,
I just wish you would see
you are hurting yourself.
november child 