I can’t stop picking at it, I just keep scratching and digging at the tissue. It’s too ugly to ignore, but I know if I stop touching it I’ll recover just fine. However, I am a masochist and logic is not my forte. As I repeatedly irritate the wound, I can almost feel that gut wrenching feeling that entrenches my stomach and holds my heart hostage amid my bowels; it’s at the core of the injury. The sensation is all too familiar, it’s the same feeling you experience when you’re rejected for a date to the 8th grade social or you discover that your significant other never really liked a particular author but said otherwise to appease you. In the process of forming, the lesion, begins to take shape and pusses over. It is at that moment when one realizes the occupancy of the foreign ailment. The lesion of heartbreak.