A whiter shade of pale

Sometimes, shit happens.

Everybody knows shit isn't nice to clean up. It stinks, for one, and it always has to freaking smear. If you're lucky, you can walk away from it. You don't quite ever forget it, but you know, the memory fades and you almost forget the stink.

But if you're unlucky like me, the shit grows a pair of legs and dances right back up to your face and pretends to be a muffin. Yeah, sure as hell I'm going to let you back into my digestive system.

(Trauma, obviously, does something to my language)

Please, please, please stay out of my life. Truth be told, it's not that I hate you, but that if you do come back, my broken heart might just give in again, without either of us ever intending it.

I like the emptiness in my chest. And I'm going to keep it. So your face, at first just ghostly, has to turn a whiter shade of pale.