A heart being wrenched makes the food hard to go down, the waterworks easy to gush out, the pain in the chest hard to bear, the body motionless, the smiles hard to fake and the brain hard to think straight.

If I were a thing, I want to be something that is not epheremal, like flowers, that wither and die when its best days are behind. Flowers are like dope, when they bloom bright they make you forget about the dull things around you. And when they're dried and blackened, you realize that the joy you thought was golden, has left you behind. Leaving you wondering, was it even mine to begin with?

I am trying to bleed out the hurt. Picking at the wound to find the source of the pain when everyone else can see that I'm inflicting it on myself. Of course it makes no sense. But I couldn't tell a carrot from a potato in this conscious comatose.

In Ψ, we have a term for people who lie in bed and sleep all day. But I'm going to do it anyway. I wonder if this is a dilemma psychologists face all the time.