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I was brokenI was broken.
My heart was broken in pieces, so long ago that I couldn't even remember when it broke.
It wasn't like having a broken heart from love sickness, when your heart shatters all at once.
No, mine just gradually eroded and crumbled down over the years.
Sure, I tried fixing it. One little piece at the time. But every time I managed to fix a part, it just got broken down again.
And eventually I stopped trying to fix it. It felt like a waste of time anyway.
I carried the broken pieces of heart with me. Sealed in a box, deep inside my inner core.
The box was packed packed well.
And I made sure to not shake it too hard, because otherwise the splinters would hit me and it would hurt.
The pieces were only there only to serve one purpose; to fuel my inspiration for art.
It was the one thing that I did enjoy doing.
By the time I was 18 years old, I'd already seen so much in life, that I became numb to it.
And I was convinced that I would end up either
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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