She was the kind of cold, that wouldn’t be measured by the temperature. Her fragile heart being torn. Trust, shattered. Was I bitter? Absolutely. Hurt? You bet your sweet ass I was hurt. Who doesn’t feel a part of their heart break at rejection. You ask yourself every question you can think of, what, why, how come, and then your sadness turns to anger. That’s my favorite part. It drives me, feeds me, and makes one hell of a story. But it isn’t even about rejection. It is about the soul wrapping agony. Yes, the misery. She became a memory. One, that always pinched me. Pierced my heart. She became a story, I wouldn’t read. One, that stings the soul. She was hurt. Dejected. She felt the pain, way too much. Yes, she was kind. She was narrating, …how do you run and play when you feel like there are bricks of the heaviest sadness weighing down every part of your body? How do you laugh and talk when there are no laughs left inside of you? How do you say food brings you happiness, when you devour the luxurious feasts with heavy heart and tears? How do you fake smiles when your own body feels like all plastic and numb?