Untitled (This is Heartbreak)

I'm a total fuck up.
But isn't that how we all feel?  Except for those that have mastered the art of lying.
How can you not . . . admit you have faults and giant cracks in your skin.  Botox can't heal everything.
There's no plastic surgery that fixes the emptiness inside.  You have to repair that whole on your own.
I'm lost in life.
You should never master the art of lying.  Master the art of being honest, then no one could ever claim you're not being real.  No one wants to be fake.
You don't have to rip open your chest, remove your heart and cover the floor in your blood, but you can admit that you at least feel like doing that sometimes.
If someone tells you they don't care about you, your response shouldn't be "That's OK."  It should be open chest, remove heart, bleed all over floor.
Rejection is a bitch.  It's like wearing no shoes or socks in snow.  A sharp pain, then numbness, followed by the eventual slow thaw and soreness.  That's not fun for anyone.
This is heartbreak.  Your heart doesn't actually break; just everything else does.  You can't speak, think or comprehend.  If heartbreak were a gunshot, it wouldn't actually get you in the chest.  More like in the thigh or maybe the shoulder; just enough to weaken you and throw you off guard.
Tears are real.  Anyone who says they've never just cried has mastered the art of lying.  Avoid those people.  Standing in your doorway, bedroom, kitchen, those are all good places to cry if you feel the need.  You don't need to be physically or emotionally hurt.  Sometimes it's best if you're not.  It's more real that way.
Love is real, too.  Not as real as tears, but real nonetheless.  Sadly, only tears are forever.