mr cold heart

my heart is still, like a cobblestone waiting for the road to come, silent in all its rage. whatever happened to me, long ago, doesn't matter anymore. there is some unholiness in dying as a hero when you're still alive and breathing, when all the congratulation applauses come from people who believe you're doing fine on controlling your impulses, on mending and patching up old bruises. I am not ok, I am dead inside myself. My heart is like a party with music and no ones dancing. I am desperate to run, I am dying for taquichardia. I am sorry.