I feel like someone punched me in the stomach and took out my heart.
Internally, I feel weak.
Externally, I feel like the wind, being transported from one emotion to the next, unstoppably.
My eyes water every few seconds, and then my heart crumbles, and rebirths anew again.
Tearing up has become my forte; my strong suit. Crying, wholeheartedly, halfheartedly, and anywhere in between, is my life.
The last few days took everything from me.
My hope, my optimism, my love for all things good, they are all lying on the pavement outside my home, destructed, but somehow indestructible.
I am a paradox. Hoping for the best, but secretly realizing the worst. The worst has come. It has not gone.
I worry that my body will fall into a deep slumber, a depression that I cannot be awoken from.
I was given something wonderful and then life stole it away from me.
I wonder if I’ll ever feel okay again, if I’ll ever find that feeling once more.
I am a bird with no wings, a singer with no tune, a dancer with no legs.
Hope has left the building and I do not know when it will return.
All that remains is a false sense of wellbeing, a false sense of hope that must be murdered if I want to survive.