I don't know why we blame the heart when we cry and break and drunk text that ex. When we're paralyzed by pain and bad decisions, I really don't know why we blame the heart. My poor, bruised heart hasn't done anything but nurse its wounds, red and blue and black and purple, quietly in a corner, sinking into itself, into the miserable oblivion of unrestrained emotion and nonstop Netflix.
It's my brain which is the problem- my brain which fires up the spleen of my anger, my brain which reminds me of everything. Of street food and stuffing pani puri into my mouth, of the balloon and the baby and the little bubble toy, of the movie and the cuddling and the junk food- so much junk food. I guess you were bad for my heart in more ways than one.
But there I go again, bringing my heart into this mess that it has no business being in; this mess that my brain created. My brain, which refused, just straight up refused to fathom a world without you, for a year and a month and four days, and which broke the very first time it was faced with the possibility- hell, the first five times it was faced with that possibility. My brain, which still can't quite seem to grasp the concept of over, which changes its mind twice an hour about how to deal with the remnants of us. My brain, which no longer lets me like summer and sundays and sundaes and sunshine, suede and subtlety and suits and sweethearts, but which won't let me stop liking you.
~Sam
It's my brain which is the problem- my brain which fires up the spleen of my anger, my brain which reminds me of everything. Of street food and stuffing pani puri into my mouth, of the balloon and the baby and the little bubble toy, of the movie and the cuddling and the junk food- so much junk food. I guess you were bad for my heart in more ways than one.
But there I go again, bringing my heart into this mess that it has no business being in; this mess that my brain created. My brain, which refused, just straight up refused to fathom a world without you, for a year and a month and four days, and which broke the very first time it was faced with the possibility- hell, the first five times it was faced with that possibility. My brain, which still can't quite seem to grasp the concept of over, which changes its mind twice an hour about how to deal with the remnants of us. My brain, which no longer lets me like summer and sundays and sundaes and sunshine, suede and subtlety and suits and sweethearts, but which won't let me stop liking you.
~Sam
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