Everyone can always tell what I’m thinking or feeling. I wear a prosthetic heart on my sleeve. The real one broke a long time ago. I’m sure you remember. You were the one who cracked it, smashed it, destroyed, crushed, shattered it into a million pieces, then swept those pieces into the breeze when you turned your back. We weren’t perfect, but neither are you and she. I don’t want you back. All I want, is to want. To feel genuine. Maybe I’m better off dead. So, thank you, for doing this to me. I hope you love her forever. Because if you don’t, I'm dying for nothing.