I'm 67 percent full of hope.

That leaves 33 percent left for pessismism.

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There's only so much left of me left to love you with.

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Full.

Empty.

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And I think I'm getting to the point where I'm empty --

where my heart is about to crack into millions of little pieces.

The pieces can fill the missing 67 of hope so all that's left is pessimism

and a shattered lump of ice that used to be something warm

beating

loving.

Now empty.

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100 percent empty.

-

-

-

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A/N: This is part of a challenge on deviantART – where you're given 100 themes to write about. This one is called 67. I'll be updating this rather frequently – I'm aiming to do one theme a day, as well as working on my other stories. Think of this as speedwriting, not as polished, done in a constrained time period. In any case, I hope you enjoyed it. Also, blah at fictionpress not allowing symbols.

Thanks for reading!

Emma.