Whispers in the dark

I am broken

into pieces:

one hundred

and a half.

Neither good,

nor bad.

It just hurts:

a chronical

headache

living

in my heart.

Whenever

they ask me

about pain,

I just

laugh:

a genouine,

pure, raw

shout

coming from

my throat.

I wish 

I could tell them

how does it feel

to be torn;

but I'd rather 

keep it to myself

in the depths

of my empty,

sole

pond.