Volcanic ash has taken over the grey matter in my head, and I am left with the Pompeii-like destruction of my heart.
Who is to say if I did this to myself? Of course, I DID do this to myself. I couldn’t possibly stay with the boy who loved me.
Yet, my heart has become exposed layers of jumbled sediment with the imprints of your memory stuck in them.
What’s ironic to me is that I want you to heal. I know I have hurt you, I knew it from the way you cried to me on the phone. I hate myself for hurting you, and I want you to heal even if that means you need to hurt me back. Is that love or guilt dictating my mind? Or both?
My mom doesn’t seem to understand why I am languishing around the house. She told me that if I live here she expects me to work hard, which is understandable. I just wanted her to be my friend today, so that I could begin my own healing process. I wanted a mom to tell me we would go on a shopping spree, or make cookies, or eat ice cream out of the containers and watch a chick flick. Instead, both of my parents texted me goodnight even though we live in the same house.
Maybe I am being punished for breaking someone’s heart. I just hope whoever is punishing me realizes that I broke my own heart too.