Bitches won't understand.

I stand alone with hearts at my feet. Squished between my toes and flat under my heels, poor, beautiful, gentle, kind, fragile hearts have fallen at my feel. Sharper than eggshells, they pierce my souls, worming into my veins, making their way through my bloodstream to my head and heart where they stay forever. A needle in my eye. A sting in my heart.

I know what I want. I alone can hear my own heart sing. I watch and observe the pitter and patter of her whims and wants and when she ignores the arrow shot from a boy, pushing me forward, pushing me elsewhere, I can't help but look behind me at the carnage. I try. I constantly battle. Force myself to get to know the boy behind the man's face.

But that only makes it harder when I keep moving forward. To know exactly what I've done to a person I've grown to love in another way.

But no one feels bad for the rejector. It's only the rejected the people pity. Do I not also feel pain? Another day, I am alone. Another day my blood stained feet carry me forward, split on bone and weary. To fall into another's arms would feel so sweet, but my bitch of a heart won't fall for one, fall into any set of arms.

She wants to be here, alone on the battlefield. "Victorious" to some, I only feel empty. I will always be here, I will always be alone. A bitter shield, blocking those sweet affections, keeps me isolated.

Against my will, I stand, my malicious little heart and I, over the bodies of those potential lovers, those potential Valentine's Days, those long, potential nights of bliss.