She walks.
They whisper.
She knows not of what they speak of.
But of what they hear time and time again.

That's her, they think.
The girl who is heartbroken.
That's me, she thinks.
The girl who fails at love.

For loving is sacrifice.
Sacrifice of heart, mind, and soul.
Loving is learning the inevitable fate.
There is no way heartbreak can be controlled.

For losing love resembles dying.
Like a rose fading of its luscious romance.
Drained of its thunderous color and subtle passion.
The thorns then grow stiff and bitter, preventing another victimization at chance.

Coldness increases as the rose grows weak.
Drags it into an endless pit of depression.
Sunlight is nothing but a distant memory, a dying flame.
For the rose is broken, there is no hope to question.

The stillness continues.
The color dies.
There is no running from the truth.
There is no telling oneself lies.

So, she walks.
So, they whisper.
She pretends not to listen.
They pretend to understand.