The problem was that my heart had lain on the fault line, and once the earthquake began, the tremors shook my heartstrings into pieces. The feeling it bore was previously unimaginable; I had always thought of heartbreak as a corny term, and only a term, that couldn't actually feel as badly as it was told to me.
But I have soon discovered that feelings are often disconnected from their descriptions.
That is how it felt: disconnected. It felt as though a pair of hardy, relentless hands had grasped a side of my chest each, and that those said hands were slowly pushing through my diapragm.
And from the pour of blood that those hands released, I could feel the very essence of my being tearing, pulling, fading. The mess was intangible, though I could feel it. I could feel it: The blood pumping erratically throughout my chest, before each thoughtless cell carried itself away from me, making me cold. 514Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhCBrMCQ2Id
There was no noise to accompany the cacophony of misery that applauded the hands forcing my heart from my chest. Unless, however, you like to count silence as a true, technical noise. Though the lack of literal noise, I could almost imagine as if I could hear the cracking that I so rightfully formed in my head, for it seemed fitting for such a situation.
From forth the crevice in my chest streamed the blood, the nausea I could nearly smell. My mind insisted that it was not there, but it's logic was not strong enough to cover up the panic building in the back of my throat. My stomach acid refused to calm, bubbling into and out of my esophagus in an erratic, interchangeable pattern. It poured through my throat just as non-literally as the blood poured from my chest.
Some could say it was the heartbreak. Others could say it was the panic, the denial, the guilt, the hope for a better time in the future. I would just say it was the blood, the tearing of the skin that allowed such a wave of horror to descend upon my mind, that changed me. It changed me. However, after a while, I had began to forget why exactly the feeling was there.
It no longer mattered to me-the why of the feeling. What mattered now was the how. And how was this feeling in any way possible? How was this feeling a reality?
Well, of course, the feeling was only possible in accompaniment to the complete and utter breaking of my heart.
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