They call it a break up as though it’s one swift act, like dropping a plate on the floor and seeing all the individual pieces of something that was whole just moments ago.
But baby, you started taking pieces of me long before you left me broken on the ground.
See, I stayed with you despite the fact that I could feel you forming fault lines in my skin.
Soon, I was breaking off parts of myself and handing them to you so that you could be whole.
I figured that some day soon I would spend a night held so tightly in your arms, it would smooth out all the cracks that had been made. Instead, you became just as fractured as me. I tried to mend you with my own damaged hands, but you decided to take care of it on your own.
You kept the bits of me that I had given to you. I don’t mind that you still have them. They’re yours. I’m yours. But I don’t think you realized just how much of me you have. And now I’m bleeding ink and throwing glass at walls, realizing that it feels really fucking good to shatter something else in order to put yourself back together.