Mistakes I’ll Make

By definition, intelligence is marked as the trait of applying what one has learned from past experiences to future endeavors, pushing the agenda of success. Most would argue that I am intelligent but I couldn't be dumber than a pile of rocks. And I get stuck between the notion of knowing the heart loves without reason and the fact that I can't make you love me. It's impossible to describe the sensation of loving someone else so intensely that you can only grasp the concept of how you feel by assuming they love you equally so. And yet they do not. And when you are forced to face their immutable preference for someone other than you, you can physically feel your heart sink within your chest. The rib cage expands, the other organs move to become more compacted, and the throbbing heart falls in pieces: each ache is a physical rendering of it tearing apart. You become awkward and act nervously anxious. You can only think of ways to exit the scene in the hopes of not making a scene as your made up world implodes. And you don't know how to use your body or how to show you're immune to their indifference toward you. But they noticed your shift in demeanor and they began to wonder why you came.