It's funny how the things that used to hurt you
become distant memories
and silly jokes
once you realize that they were never meant to
do any more more than
hurt you.

Sometimes I try to count
just how many tears I wasted,
just how many times I desired to
take my life
over the things that gave me the strength
to face the life I'm living today.

How does one count the cracks in their heart?
I use the scars on my body.
They have faded over the years,
but it's less about the number
and more about the memories:
which ones were supposed to inflict pain,
and which were meant to be an escape?

Maybe someday I'll throw away the keepsakes,
the boxes under my bed filled with my first real heartbreak,
the clothes shared throughout my second,
the pictures taken to scrapbook my third,
and the gifts and letters that hopefully won't become symbols of my fourth.