Anthology of A Fractured Heart

The end of it all is a silent acceptance, or flipping of a switch to suppress the storm.

At some point, the storm that doesn't leave you ends up calling you it's home and finding secret places to hide and devour your heart one beat at a time.

Clenched chest at all times and tears that should fall threaten to stay forever as your eyelids war with the rivers inside of you refusing to allow the passage of pain.

Then, knowing it's wartime, your body stops craving survival in the obvious ways, so you slowly waste away, which is fine by you...you had pounds too many anyway.

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Haven't I been here before? A hundred times at least? Blood soaked chest where my heart once was, it's shards beneath my feet?

Didn't I get better? Or just better at pretending.

But that's the price you pay for mending broken things. They leave their pain with you and soak up all your love as if it was a renewable resource.

What a mistake you turned out to be, and one I so easily keep making.

A guarded heart is no good around you, and the walls I built didn't stand a chance against the gales of your storm.

What a mistake I turned out to be, grown and learning and "better than ever" and praised for the work I put in.

Yet, deceitfully hiding the lack of result I put out.

"Working on it" hurts the way a scab has to choose the right time to go. Too soon and the nerves haven't quite let go, and too late the body has forgotten it, a calloused and useless covering.

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There are worse things than this, but right now it hurts and I'll let it hurt for as long as it takes for God to pave a new way. Bricks and mortar are not torn down in the span of an evening when the core of the house must remain.

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Does it matter to you that I'm drowning? I'm pouring out silent screams and clawing invisibly at the surface, begging you to see me or just to say one word.

I'm not asking for your lips again, I don't even need your hand. I am just standing here dying,, begging you wordlessly not to let me drown.

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I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm suffocating. Please just call and bring me back to life, because a thousand cuts to my heart feels better than the numbness glittering wildly through my limbs.

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You want me less when I want you too,

so I cry all night, thinking of you.

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You're fading away and I'm pulling you back, wish I'd let you go, but you'd run right back. The louder I yell, the harder I scream, you run faster than ever from everything. And really, if I'm honest, my silence hurts less than than the feeling of loving you, but both are debilitating blows.

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How to detox from a man whose blood gets under your skin and sends shockwaves through your veins leaving you worse off than before.

Step One: stop being a total idiot.

Your flight of fight has gone haywire due to the ripples he sends across your nervous system, brain to spine and all the nerves outward branching from there.

Tendrils of smoke curl up in your lungs and beg to be released, for fresh air to flow again, but your body can't part with a single molecule of his touch so you soak it in to every cell and allow him to eat away at what makes you whole.

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I'm begging you not to leave me here.

It's dark and cold and the only light I have left is the cruel burn from our ending flame. More like cinders, a spent cigarette burning holes in my heart...but at least that's something.

I'd take all the razor sharp pain of all you can't give over the ice-cold numb enveloping my entire being, and now nothing is living or breathing inside of me.

Your cruelty let's me feel all the things I suppress, but the cruelty of your silence is new and far worse than anything I thought I could handle.

Maybe I'll go mad.

Or maybe I'll disintegrate and feel nothing ever again.

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Bleeding on a page won't stop this heart from fracturing further, but consider it proof like an autopsy of our love, that all I did was hurt at the mercy of your hurting.