so many mini-stories and scenes pop into my head & i have absolutely no time to develop them into full novels so I'm making a book of one shots.
This book will feature people that I feel should be utilized more in fanfics or be casted in leading ro...
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BLACK. black like death. black like grief. black like isolation. black like fear of the unknown. black like power
Where do broken hearts go?
Do they carry on as if they're not broken or do they retire, becoming rusted like pieces of junk? Do they go to Florida or some shit? Or do they just remain in one's chest until something is done to rip them out like organs infected with cancer? Do they fester, the pieces of a heart broken spreading to break one's spirit too?
It's all of the above.
There have been times where I thought I was strong enough to carry on. There have been times where my heart felt as though it no longer worked. There've been times where it felt like my heart had gone on vacation, leaving behind a hallow shell of a man.
I remember looking to the stars and wondering why. I remember looking at the moon & thinking of the promise ring I was going to gift Priscilla. I recall those rainy nights, when her mascara would stain my jeans and coconut oil would soak my hand. I remember those serene instances of nightfall when I'd look at her and she'd look at me, and my heart would sink with how much joy and comfort it was weighed down with, just being with her.
Once she was gone, I felt like I'd been thrown to the wolves, the coldness that always presented itself in her absence beginning to gnaw at me like coyotes do their prey. I felt like I was on a winding road that'd never end with headlights that were dimming more with every passing day.
I remember how I cried myself to sleep for nearly two weeks before I ran out of tears. After that, it just felt as though I was standing neck deep in the tears that'd been garnered. I felt like. . . if I shed any more tears, I'd drown.
and I wasn't sure if that would have been a bad thing or not.
I considered leaving behind my despair in the same manner Priscilla did. I couldn't go back to how things used to be— how sad I used to be before we met. How unhappy I used to be. . . I didn't think I deserved that. . . I didn't know what I deserved, especially since I was blaming myself for not saving her from herself, but I didn't think I deserved this.
I recoiled into myself for months. I even ended up on academic probation because of my lack of attendance in class and the subsequent drop of my grades. . .
I couldn't even get myself out of bed. How was I supposed to get to class? How was I supposed to do any work? How was I supposed to set foot in the very same Sign Language class that prompted the love affair had with Priscilla.
Sometimes, I wished she'd never written those letters to me. Sometimes, I wished we'd never met. Then, I wouldn't be in so much pain.
