Rejection is never easy for anyone to swallow when it comes the person you have poured your heart and soul into, the person you have laughed with, the person you have held in your arms to console; held on to and adored when they felt worthless and hopeless. That special one whose life you saved, nurturing their self-esteem until all thoughts they ever had of giving up have fled from their mind. The same person who held you close until all of your fears and doubts dissipated into the atmosphere. Rejection from the person who loved you is like no other affliction this world can reproduce. It's a knife in the back that pierces your heart and leaves you bleeding out on cold concrete with no sense of where you are or how you got there. You look around and find nothing that looks familiar except the bittersweet memories you have, razors that you can't stop yourself from swallowing over and over and over again leaving the taste of blood on your tongue and lips; blood you swallow until it fills your stomach and leaves you retching on the cold ground you lie upon. You find yourself lying in your own blood and bile, unable to stand and wondering why? How? What happened? Asking yourself if this was ever real to begin with or if it has always been the device of some sick narrative, a terrible nightmare where bliss exists only to lead you into the state of agony you now find yourself in. Is this life, as they say? To find something, someone who fills every empty crevice that you never knew was there so that it can all be bled out so you're left aching with the awareness of an intolerable vacancy you were not aware of before? The same awareness that leaves you questioning every infinite moment you ever had. Was it worth nothing at all to them? All of those little things you did to express your love, adoration and commitment? Was it a farce to be laughed and scoffed at the moment a new, formidable challenger came into the scene? Is this how the world works? We find ourselves being told how impervious we are to the disdainful judgements our lovers reserve for the rest of the world so long as we remain the most enchanting they have ever encountered? Words fed to us like nectar of the gods that we cherish and drink in, savoring the flavor until it ferments to venom upon reaching our bloodstream. When did love fail at the first opportunity presented? When did the willingness to endure become such a contemptible trait? When did what others tell us become  more important than what we felt for one another? When did they stop loving us and what we stood for?