Pieces

They say that the heart breaks when it goes through something tragic.
They say that is shatters, like a glass hitting the floor.
They say that it breaks into jaded fragments.
They say that when that happens, all of the love oozes out of the cracks and onto the floor.
They say that the floor absorbs the love, but it eventually just seeps through and fades away.
They say that sometimes someone will pick up the pieces of the broken heart and pocket them.
They say that some stomp on them until they’re nothing more than tiny crystals.
They say that some will try to glue the pieces back together, but eventually that someone will give up and leave the heart to die again.
They tell me that he broke my heart.
‘But I can still feel it!’ I try to scream, but my sound is just sucked away. ‘I can still feel it beating. It's steady and sure. It’s warm and bleeding. It doesn't feel broken!’ But everyone just gives me pity instead of a listening ear.
They all tell me that when a heart is broken, it actually breaks.
But that’s not what happens. What happens is the heart is slashed open with a knife. The love does bleed out, but it pours out much quickly than others imply. The love sits in a puddle, waiting to be put back into the heart. Eventually someone comes along and stitches the heart back up and wipes the love away. New love is made inside the repaired heart, and all that’s left is a scar.
But my repairer is without his thread.
He only cuts me more.





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