There are days
when I can still feel the agonizing ache
in its accelerated beats
as your image reveals itself
behind my lids,
when I think the threads
of those stitches I sewed
four years ago
(has it really been that long?)
haven't yet dissolved
and are keeping me closed,
and when I can feel your breath
against my cheek
and eventually my rhythm
keeping time with yours.
But these words are not
unfamiliar to the pages that I bleed onto
every time I briefly feel broken again.
So, this is a letter to the last person
who broke my heart:
Not you,
but myself.

To this day
I don't recognize the eyes that stare back at me
every morning when I rise to soft beams of light
that creep their way through the holes in my blinds
as I make my way down the hall
to look into the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
You see,
sometimes
when someone tears you apart repeatedly,
you just start to view them differently.
There are times
when all I want to do
is reach into that image
and clasp my hands so tightly around her throat
until her skin grows blue
but her fight grows red,
and if she would listen to me,
I would tell her to quit sprinting
from anything that makes her feel,
Because every time I hear her feet press the ground,
every time her leg muscles bulge in flight,
I can also hear a glass heart shattering
against her thoracic cavity,
but I still feel nothing.

Let me raise a glass to finding the solution.
Take a sip.
Swirl it in your mouth.
Feel its bitter taste against your tongue
until you unlock the door
to the invisible brick wall
in front of you.
Let someone else break your heart for a change.