dirty pretty things

why conversation dissapates over coffee meetings, and why i am afraid to trust, afraid to love, because love is not something even i can define.
i thought love would be the cure, crack my ribs and repair this broken heart, but to my dismay i realized the heart, broken, was the very result of love. so you see, perhaps love is a losing game?
now i find myself tearing out the sutures.

[this is when she says 'it's not you, it's me,' and then she walks away. ]

i think i've see too many turned backs, too many exoduses, too many impossibilities.

i would for once, like to believe that i am ready for acceptance. I would only be at peace, it's all i want; but my soul is restless yet, pieces instead of peace. i have no sanctity, no sanity, none of that, nothing like silence. i have never known a quiet mind. I have only known noise, colourful noise, dynamism, nervous, rapid-electric noise, in my eyes and ears and throat.

and now, all i want is closure. so close me up, close up the wounds, call a surgeon and repair this broken heart and let me be.