told ya.

The first time your heart was torn from your chest, you thought you were dying. You knew you could not live with the empty space so you replaced your heart with metaphors and set out to create a world where the metaphor was unbreakable. Now look what you have done, you can't breath so you write, you can't hurt so you hurt yourself, you can't want revenge so you leave. But i can see this is going to get ugly. The metaphors don't make you feel whole anymore. You sell out your deepest insecurities for a handful of laughs. But you've got it all wrong, my dear.

You don't survive history, history survives you.

If you're going to break, shatter. No explanations, no messing with this bullet proof vest fury. You've had to take the pain from the safety valve of your heart and return it to your fists. Fight your better judgment until you're sinister again, until your body remembers what it already knows how to do, bend back and manifest griefs. Scream torches until you embarrass the enlightened.

Please,

no more polite conversations with your death wish. Give it something useful to do, stop the cuts and everything. Change your life, please please please. I can't stand to see you like this. So blue, my eyes turn green in your presence. You are so beautiful, grass pushes through sidewalk cracks just to kiss your feet. 

Maybe no one ever told you, but the heart is a metaphor. Yours is growing so strong, you'll have your rhythm back any day now. Dreaming like lunatic spacemen jump from their suits. Living like you never forget how.

told ya, ran.