mess.

I left my story in a barn so someone else could keep milking it. I left my story in the fitting room; it didn't fit me anymore. I left my story at the hospital because it wouldn't stop bleeding. I left my story at the rest stop; it needed a rest. I left my story at the body shop because it always wanted a different one. I left my story with some cash so it could never say, "poor me". I left my story without saying where I was going because I didn't want it to follow me; it never even noticed I was gone.


My heart is simply a mess.