You left my broken heart on the floor, but you were careful not to step on it while you left. How thoughtful, how considerate…please come step on it.
The pieces are too many, too small; I can’t stitch it back up. I can’t make it whole. Can I forsake all my promises and empty words, or do I have to continue with the lie? Can I just leave, since I have nothing left to live for? I gave up the razor, because you asked, now you’re gone and so is my reason.
I lay in bed and think of how close my sanctuary is. The sharp little blade in its metal sleeve, less than a foot from my face. And I let my mind wander to all of the guns, loaded of course, just within the house. The machete in the shed, the knives in the kitchen, the cleavers in the next room. This place is a death trap, and I’m the mouse. I’m a goner.
A single wrong step, and I’m gone. You’d like that though. You don’t care. You would shed no tears for me. I don’t blame you. No one cries for me. I’ve got a broken heart, a stiched on smile. Screwed.