I died on a Sunday. Not really but it felt as if I did.
My best friend died on a Sunday and by doing so, ripped me apart. My heart fell from my chest. It was heavy as it fell, still attached to my lungs, pulling down so I couldn't breath.
When I walked my heart strings became tangled. When I ran they weaved themselves into a knot. They wound themselves round my body, Around my legs and arms and neck. My eyes melted like butter but no matter the amount they leaked, I still remained caught in my personal spider’s web.
All of me was constricted and those bonds pulled tighter everyday, until I was curled up in a ball. Until I folded in on myself like a house of cards. The world around me, only reaching from edge to edge of a bed.
But through all of this, still my heart was beating.
YOU ARE READING
Open Hearts
General FictionDo you know what it is that which we feel? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. It's all just thoughts in my (your) head.
