It’s been a long night of revisiting old mistakes and people who aimed directly at my heart and shot their absence into it. The gun powder still remains on the walls of my heart as I reminisce about the way your eyes looked into mine when I thought they were looking for love but really, it was just a prison cell to keep my doubts at bay. Darling, my heart still has holes in it that bleed out and stay void, so as to remember the ones I lost through the holes in the fabric of time.
I take some plaster of Paris with my fingers and cover the surface of my heart with it, in order to fill in those orifices and then paint it red so it looks as good as new and as new as old.
But then now it beats a little differently. It beats like it’s heavy, with difficulty. My chest has a chamber of PoP, that holds safe a broken piece of my framework.
Picture Source: Pinterest