You hold it up like it cut you deep. Like this one cost you skin. Cracked voice. Wet eyes. Perfect frame. Same dead trick again. Soft edge. Safe bruise. Nothing here can bite. You hand me plastic heartbreak and ask me what I think. You want the scar. Not the hit. You want the blood without the split. Don’t hand me a template and call it your heart. Don’t hand me approved damage and ask if it scars. Prefab pain. Factory ache. You want praise for a wound that came ready-made. Same cracked tone. Same careful shake. Same “raw” in cleaner clothes. Every line screams “this is real.” Nothing here gets close. You want the look of collapse. You want the shape of grief. You want ruin with soft edges. You want pain that flatters you. You want the cut without the knife. You want the wreck without the price. Don’t hand me a template and call it your heart. Don’t hand me approved damage and ask if it scars. Prefab pain. Factory ache. You want praise for a wound that came ready-made. Not confession. Design. Not a cut. A line. Not your guts on the floor. Just the safest little shape you could pour them into. Don’t hand me a template and call it your heart. Don’t hand me approved damage and ask if it scars. Prefab pain. Factory ache. You want praise for a wound that came ready-made. You didn’t bleed out. You fit the mold.
