So I returned to doing what I do best. I bled, and I bled onto paper. I tore, and I tore my heart out.
I stopped hoping, because the healers wouldn't come. And the ones who would, would only be pushed away.
I bruised my hand with pens, and not knives, telling it to stop aching for skin to touch, for it had letters to carve.
I gave up reaching out for fingers to entangle in mine, because hearts that have been contused by rejection and betrayal, have no business hoping to be healed by flowers and kisses.
