one-stop.

Don't save me. Don't try to mend it.

I just pretend to have a heart.

Not too sure why I'm still standing... breathing.

Though the most mystifying thing is why I can still feel.

Why is there this pain, physical and spiritual, within my chest?

The pain only increases as hours pass.

Indeed, it's ripping me apart.

Yet, I know... that I do not have a heart.

This pain is so real.

Almost tangible.

If I reach my fingers out to touch...

I can nearly expect to feel its thick sickly coagulating mess between them.

I haven't a heart... maybe a soul if I hadn't sold it yet.

I truly haven't a heart.

So why do I still desire love or affection?

If I myself am no longer capable of such?

It wouldn't be fair.

No, it wouldn't.

Why do I still want to be loved...

If I haven't a heart.

Where will that love spend its days in?

There's nothing to protect it, to shelter it... grow it perhaps.

I suppose it's only in my selfishness that such a dilemma arises.

Unrequited love... how pathetic of me.

I though I was better than this.

Stripped of my pride and whatever bit of dignity I have left...

I've let this distasteful desire ensnare me.

My thoughts, clouded.

My actions, restricted.

I no longer know my motives.

I suppose I search for love in hopes of destroying that perpetual pain.

Perhaps one day...

I'll find a heart, so I can finally feel life's worth, tasting the sweetness of life's nectar.

I'll fight for now... just a moment longer.