So boring

How boring is it to be heartbroken?

How many words have been written about this fucking age old affliction?



How cliché.

How irrelevant.

How basic of me.



yet we never seem to run out of words to express the ways in which our hearts have been wronged.

battered.

scorched.



Maybe there isn’t anything specific enough in the dictionary to make us feel truly understood, so we keep writing long winded sentences, stringing along words to feverishly try and explain how we have been strung along.



And we confide in people who huh you tight and say they get it. Claiming to have experienced the same strain of heart flu, yet their symptoms always seem slightly off, don’t they?



Like your chest was its own private little incubator,

with its own private little bacteria.

a virus brewed in-house,

a heartbreak strain engineered to wreck only you,

a disease whose only cure

seems to be a radical dose of loneliness.



I stopped coughing up your name weeks ago and still,

the air feels thick with you.



I guess I’ll stick with the usual prescription.



Isolate until the fever breaks.

And try not to breathe too heavy on anyone new.



You don’t wanna catch what I have.