Wreckage
The remains of a young heart
Sometimes, looking back reveals the remains of a heart that dared to trust in love.
Wreckage
I still carry love. Tattooed on my skin like a forgotten scar. So faint now. So buried and blurry. Sometimes, I look back at that reckless heart, and it stares back. So puzzled. So young and teary. The moments it felt it wouldn’t survive, torn apart by pitiless truths, or trembling behind chosen lies. Pleading for mercy. Asking for meaning I still can’t give. How could the love that was meant to keep my steps light, my fears at bay, my smile flowing like carefree butterflies, how could it burn so much? How could the sweetest of words carry the sting of imminent loss? How could I not see it come? The mess. The strength draining out of my legs, with no place to rest. The unnoticed tears shed until I dried. Until I vanished into the dark. How could the wreckage of a young heart even be called love?
Before disillusion, there is always a younger version of us
that believed without hesitation. That version still lives in The Fall.
P.S. If I am new to you, you are invited to know a little about me here: The Woman Behind the Muse - Timeless Muse.
With love,
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Original copyrighted work. © Yorlene Vega






I really love this. beautiful and painful.