My heart is wrenched.
Bleached feelings of hope and positive outtakes.
I couldn't tell you why.
But maybe it was the stories.
The stories that I invited into my meaning.
The type of stories that leave dark, venomous dreams in your skull.
The type of stories that ask no queries.
The ones that leave bitter, tasteless feelings on your tongue.
The awkward stretch in your throat.
The tight clench in the roof of your stomach.
That scratchy, almost-but-not-quite-dead layer of skin on your heart that is left by such stories.
I've felt it before.
And it aches.
I especially loathe the memories it leaves in that certain part of your brain.
The sad memories only.
The pessimistic part only allowed.
The stories that are the true reason you want to cry at night.
The exact type of stories that you hate to love that were written in the first place.
Or maybe its, 'love to hate'?
Whichever it is, the stories reach your life and become something you look into and live.
The ones your living because you remember.
Remember because you can't forget.
Remember because your living it.
The ones leaving you with
When your heart is wrenched.
Your so far deep in the thoughts, you can't think any farther out.
Stuck in the story.
They should post warnings on these stories that say, 'Put down NOW!'
That way, they don't enter your life as a complete surprise.
So they don't destroy what's left of your miraculous sanity...
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