Heartless

My heart is my own, and because of that I can pretend I don't have one. Now here's the thing, I don't have a sad story to tell. My heart is still in one piece. I don't have a broken heart, because I haven't given it away yet. I have not met the person to whom which I want to give my heart. This is a blessing because I know that it is bliss to be free, and an accursed free-ness it is. I look at happy couples and think to myself: They are happy. I wish I could sit in companionable silence with my arm around the shoulders of the girl I love. But I am too cowardly to put myself out there. I am too shy to admit that I might like a girl, let alone ask her on a date. At the very same time I am terribly afraid of the day when I do find love, the day I have heard horror stories about because it inevitably leads to a heart break. Or so I've been told. And this terrifies the sensitive, shy, and slightly timid me that hides behind the wall of humor, puns and general tough facade that makes up a greater part of me.

C.G.