I found my long-lost heart the other day. It lay on my bathroom floor, soaking in a pool of bright red blood. A broken razorblade sitting on the floor gleamed up at me, its cutting edge dulled with red. A small, tattered note was pinned above my broken heart, a kind of paper tombstone to this miserable grave. On it was written the last words of the ruined thing lying underneath. "Your greatest sacrifice was mine to make," it read. I left the note on the wall, a silent reminder of this tragic suicide. Slowly, I began to wipe up the blood, cleaning the mess like erasing a memory. And although I failed, although the blood still stains my bathroom floor, and although the memory haunts me still today, I no longer feel the pain of that night. I haven't felt a thing since the night my heart committed suicide.