"I never loved you."
And that's what it feels like. Like someone hammering on your sternum with a laden hammer, cracking each rib with an unrefined intensity that only your copious words could manage.
One, Two. Thump, Thump.
I feel like I am collapsing into myself. The rhythmic beat of the mallet banging on my replete chest is not the beating of a heart on the inside, threatening to escape in a flurry of butterflies, but a beating of the sledgehammer on the outside, coercing its way inside to stop the beat of the heart, stop the breathe of the lungs, stop the pump of the blood.
Inhale, Exhale; Its my imagination.
Is it my imagination or a crippling reality in which the beating of my heart is slowing to a beat per minute, or in which it is pumping, beating against its cage like a restricted bird, ready to burst?
My feet are feeling heavy, two tons of pure steele collapsing into themselves. Although meant to be sturdy, my feet are failing me. I think I'm falling, but I'm not sure, for my senses have seemed to cease their labour.
I can't see. Colours begin to seep into my vision, crawling about in my peripheral vision, consuming what was once you.
Black, Red, Purple, Blue. Colours are leaking into emotions, diluting and mixing to the point where I can't tell the difference between hurt and purple.
I can't feel. Emotions feel like fabrics on my skin. Angry; vehemence, a burning feeling, beginning at my fingertips and rising to my face, filling with intolerable sultriness. Hurt; abrasion, laceration. The scrape of sandpaper grazing my skin, profoundly scratching away at me, wearing down my exterior to allow my emotions to leak out in the form of thick, metallic ichor.
Are you shrinking or am i growing? These four words managed to make me feel like a mere grain of sand, indifferent from those around me. These four words managed to taint my soul, burst my bubble, deflate my balloon, break my heart.
Your incredulous words of mendacity that you used to pave your yellow brick path into my lien of a heart with your equivocate manner had become evident at this moment. Our love was a lie, or, rather, whatever we had, was a lie.
But all of these conflicted emotions cached themselves into an obstruction, into a barrier, into yet another wall, thicker than before, concealed by a blanket of fabrication in which I persuaded you in a short sentence that your words had no effect on me.
"I never loved you, either."
