born broken, my heart needs glue.
it need hands to hold it, to give it shape.
it needs others to recognize, though it’s shape isn’t perfect, because it is so fragile, it is still a heart.
I pushed you and your hands began to shake, you dropped my heart and now my heart aches. Who will love a misshapen heart? who will help
me build a new one?

My memories are all wrapped up in you. That bedspread, concert ticket, book. They were ours once. Given to you out of love, what’s mine was yours. This house, those pots, this heart. Those things I gave you, they’re mine again, handed back like a gift unloved. My old life haunts me with smiles and kisses and love.

Despair. Not sadness. A black darker than the rest. Depression is shades of grey, despair is a lifestyle. The sad place I go to work everyday. It takes work, you know, to live this way. It’s not for the weak of heart. It is for the iron souled. The Tin men. “if I only had a heart!” The truth is I do and it’s made of tar. Covered in oil and can barely pump without the pain of movement. My skin is a pillow and I’m suffocating myself. Breathe in. Blackout.

From kaleidoscopes to telescopes i was transformed. a chemical reaction in the heart; hope found in infinity. And now, as I gaze into the universe, I mimic the stars as I watch each one implode.

I came home to an empty home. My heart sank and as its contents slowly evaporated I find the note:

“Dear Caitlinest,
You will always be my heart. You are an amazing shooting star. Thank you for sharing your life with me.

Love Robert

My house is empty now. And as I lay down each night and hope that this is just a dream I am kept awake as my
mind carves these words over and over into my heart.

Only in the ephemeral haze of alcohol and piano driven songs of David Bowie can my body capture what my mind aspires to feel.

It’s easy to pretend in the day. The sunshine can blind others to my cringing smile. I only talk to people in public so I can keep my cool, not break down. They hesitantly ask me about it and I say “it’s fine.” But it’s more like a knife being turned very slowly, so slow you can barely see it move, in my heart. I know I’ll get used to it. I am a master of perpetual heartache. I still hate it, and what I hate more is what I don’t know. Is your life better now without me? Do you wake up wishing I was there? Do you mourn for the family we had? Do you mourn at all? Have you even shed a tear? Or am I crying for the both of us? I can’t help but feel there was no fight, no struggle. Our hands became unclasped and we just shrugged as our hearts flew away.

I guess I really never thought about what being an adult was going to be like until now, when I actually “am” one. I guess I just figured it wouldn’t be me sitting alone on my living room floor in front of a space heater listening to bossa nova and watching my cat sleepily squeeze his eyes. But I guess this is what it’s like, obviously.

It’s hardest at night. It’s hardest when I am with only myself, alone. Laying in bed with no one to hold, no warmth , no whisper of sweet dreamscapes to bring luck to my dreams. No sweet face to admire when I wake first. No sweet nothings as I fade into the tiny oblivion of sleep, only nothings.

The papers are signed. My heart is in two. I thought he’d say more, or anything for that matter.
…
“everything in the future seems horrifying”
“if you kept thinking that than nothing will seem better. this is why we can’t talk about this.”
…
I’m broken.