Each night I turned on my iPod and listened to the song that best reflected my everchanging emotional upheaval. Tonight it was (oh just insert any old broken hearted love song here) and it suited me. I felt a little broken. I ached the way an old toy ached after years of play. One day you find yourself at the bottom of a cardboard box. Yes, just like in Toy Story.
As the music flooded my ears I began to cry. I had wanted to cry and the song was the perfect catalyst. I cried until the song was over, said my prayers and went to bed. I repeated this sadly simple ritual every night before bed for several weeks. After a month I came to the realization that it was becoming harder and harder to cry. I felt like an orange rind that had been squeezed and juiced hundreds of times in a row. There were no more tears. I couldn't fathom why until it finally occured to me that I has healing. I couldn't cry anymore because it was no longer necessary.
I wouldn't classify it as attempted murder, what he did.
He simply held my beating heart in his hands and turned his back toward me. I lay there, dying, gasping for air. He set my bloody-red heart, my healthy beautiful pulsating heart on the concrete. He set it down softly and quietly walked away. He didn't look back of course. They only look back in the movies. I watched his silhouette and loved him still.
So that's where I stayed. I struggled to breathe. I struggled to live and somehow I did. I lived without a heart. My heart sat on the gray concrete floor, a little bit more than an arm's length of where I was sprawled out. The crimson blood seeped and pooled around my heart making a lovely little stain on the floor.
And that's where my heart stayed. It kept beating, oddly enough. A bonafide medical mystery. But he had decided he didn't want it anymore. And I couldn't quite reach it myself. So that's where it stayed.
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