For Valentines (Freewrite)

I'm going to be sick. My insides are awash with waves of physical pain at the thought of my only true friend denying me, and I try to cry in the distant hope that it would alleviate the growing pressure in my heart. There has to have been something I could have done...something I can still do, to rectify this situation. What went so irrecoverably wrong? How can he look me in the eyes with all of our achievements, our sentiments, our soul-felt feelings behind us, and tell me our love has stopped? What does it feel like to not care at all? Probably simply, nothing. He is forcefully ripping out, mushing up, and grating to pulp the piece of him he'd given me. I had pumped blood to it, held on to it warmly, and nurtured it with all of my being. Now it lay reduced to a watery mess, and with what remorse? With what compassion?

My skin itches with anxiety and my teeth ache because I've been clenching them tightly. My face feels greasy and I'm sure of how ugly I must look to him right now. If he doesn't love me for what we've shared then he surely can't love me for the wounded, worried, and frantic being he's made me in this moment.

Everyone seems to stare at us attentively from their vantage points, perched over lattes like crows pecking at larvae. Their eyes dart to and from our faces, expectantly; ready to pounce as soon as one of us is left alone. I want to spew the pain on my insides all over him so they'll eat him first. It feels appropriate, as he should at least feel what I'm feeling on his outsides.

My lips fail in their depression, refusing to move. Perhaps it is they, now, who are the most heart broken of all. He could at least have allowed them one last touch, however small. A bit of nourishment they would surely need for the bitter famine ahead, or the breath of a whisper to just induce the blood flow...anything to revive them as they lay stunned, immobile, and morose.