There was a point when I still held onto the hope of rebuilding the shards of my heart. I had collected them carefully as to not draw any more blood. Too much had already been spilled. I swept them into a brown paper bag with a whisk broom and placed them beneath the extra pillow on the empty half of the bed.
There was a point when I truly believed, though less and less each lonely day, that I could actually reconstruct the hundreds of sharp pieces into what I originally had. I could hardly remember what it looked like in the first place. When I looked in the bag I saw dangerous looking slivers, twinkling like bloody diamonds, too sharp to handle, but too shiny to ignore.
Finally I could take it no longer and poured them onto the carpet. For weeks I struggled to place the pieces back into some vague semblance of the original, giving up and starting over more times than I cared to count. Eventually I realized that it could never be the same. There was a piece missing, the piece you had taken with you. The piece that was you.
Broken heart (by bored-now)