My heart isn’t broken; no that’s way to terminal.  This is simply a small bite into my fragile heart of tissue paper.  It will eventually heal, and at worst it will turn into a scar.  But it is not a tear making my heart into two.  It is just a small bite by a microscopic mosquito.

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I understand why mosquitos are known as death on wings.  It’s starting to burn from the teeth marks that sunk into my glass heart.  Purple and an awful tan color penetrate the once red and beating muscle.  It has gone numb and I can’t feel the pain anymore.   You see, I told you it was just a trivial bite.

My heart isn’t broken; no that’s way to terminal.  This is simply a small bite into my fragile heart of tissue paper.  It will eventually heal, and at worst it will turn into a scar.  But it is not a tear making my heart into two.  It is just a small bite by a microscopic mosquito.

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It has reached my lungs.  My mind is the only thing alive.  I can hear the ripping of my tissue paper heart, and feel the fibers of the tissue fall apart.  The glue I placed there to keep it together starts to smell and sedate my mind, it slowly melting painfully down my chest.  My breath is subsiding and I can’t interchange completely.  Why does he have to cause me so much hurt by being with her?  Why doesn’t he comprehend that I am decaying inside… is my love an imitation?

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