My heart is going to be battered around the whole rest of my life. I guess I can choose whether or not to be ready for this. It's coming either way. I bruise like a peach.
Creek next to I-64
I want to yell to everyone "My heart hurts!" to write it on every page, to whisper it in every ear, but I know that so does everyone else's. Maybe they want to hear it spoken. Maybe the fact that it does isn't as important as its particular shade among heartache's innumerable variations.