Porcelain hearts, and perfect masks of glass.
The arsenal of the brokenhearted consists of cold indifference, simply because... well the heart might shatter and the glass can crack. What's underneath is ugly, and it raw. The pain is real, and it doesn't stop. The pain doesn't consume me anymore, but it still throbs. This isn't poetic or eloquent. Perhaps soon I'll write and it will be... maybe tomorrow. For now, no. For now, a song.
The arsenal of the brokenhearted consists of cold indifference, simply because... well the heart might shatter and the glass can crack. What's underneath is ugly, and it raw. The pain is real, and it doesn't stop. The pain doesn't consume me anymore, but it still throbs. This isn't poetic or eloquent. Perhaps soon I'll write and it will be... maybe tomorrow. For now, no. For now, a song.
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