I feel like the most melancholic song ever written. I feel like a piano with missing keys, a hollow piano clumsily crafted with rusty tools and termite-riddled balsa wood, like a melody composed of discordant notes, A minors and B flats. I feel like Mtn Dew when it has gone flat... tell me why would you want to drink that? I feel like you planned to break my body in two, like you wanted me to be incomplete so that I could resemble you. Now you are more whole than I will ever be because while you have the quarters and thirds and splinters of my heart, my soul, my everything, I am left with these tired limbs and a healthy spleen. But I've heard that's the body part I don't actually need. When I was a little girl, I felt this way. I felt like there wasn't a heart inside of me. I felt like I was walking on legs of lead that could never carry the thoughts emanating from my head. When I was a little girl, I used to worry I was dead because I'd wake up on summer mornings and there would be nothing beating inside of my chest. Hollow. Empty. Balsa wood. Love. I learned it along the way, and I worried my heart would break out of my torso, I wasn't used to this breathing inside of me, this beating inside of me, I wasn't used to the tender pain of having every crevice inside of me filled and insulated, and I thought I would throw up for all the movement inside of my chest. Love. It was a monster. Breathing, pounding within me, demanding more bedroom space. And so I let it grow, I let it stretch toward the treetops, baring its belly button and twisting when touched by the sun's rays. It filled me up all the way, and I knew I had loved completely- with everything I had- until the monster within me grew out of breathing space. That's when I donated the pieces of my heart, my soul, and my everything. I gave it all with a smile on my face, happy to try and make someone else whole. And then I realized that I'd left nothing for myself, and I blamed you for taking all of me. I know why I feel like the most melancholic song ever written. I know why I feel like a piano with missing keys, a hollowed out piano clumsily crafted with rusted tools and and termite-riddled balsa wood, why I feel like a melody composed of discordant notes, A minors and B flats. I know that I am incomplete. I know I need to fill myself up with love for me. I know I can use my left hand to play the right chords to complement my melancholic melody. I know that while today I am incomplete, the notes in my head are proof I won't always be.