If my heart could break into a million little pieces, each piece would be engraved with her name. Every little hurt she caused me has a piece all it’s own. A million little pieces for a million little (and big) hurts.

I could string them up and wear them around neck. A sign of the fragility of my heart and the incisiveness of her knives. Did she sharpen them before every attack? Did she wash off the blood after? The intensity never dulled, every hurt was exquisite in it’s freshness.

I could sell the pieces, one by one. Other people’s pain always sells very well. They have been selling it since the dawn of storytelling. In words, in pictures, in books and in movies. There are a lot of takers for pain, as long as it is someone else’s pain, not their own. Any takers here?

I could just put them all back together. It would take time, a very long time. Would it be worth the effort? I don’t think I want to love again or be loved, for that matter. I could not take another million little hurts or even just one.