it’s 11:11;

my heart is still raw, the wounds are still fresh, like they

were inflicted upon me yesterday. the surface of my heart is

jagged, it’s been hard for this broken heart to beat normally

because each beat feels like it’s ready to break through its


i’ve spent all my 11:11 wishes wishing for bandages to patch

up the open wounds and gashes people have hurt my heart with,

wounds that have been rubbed with sandpaper over and over,

while they rubbed salt against the raw flesh, like the sandpaper wasn’t

enough to inflict any kind of pain,

but it still pumps, feebly so, even after i’ve felt like my heart

threatens to give in,

it expands when i feel like i can’t love anymore,

and, sometimes, when it shrinks, I can’t help




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