I used to feel like your last meal, like I was the thing you dreamt of having in your perfect moment, one of absolute bliss – the thing that would fill you up and make you feel alive.

But I no longer create that insatiability in your belly – These days, I think, I am more like leftovers.

You pick at me until you’re done, until you’re satisfied, until you have taken all the pieces of me that make you feel whole.

And once you are – I don’t resemble myself anymore.

See, while you picked me apart to plug in your holes, you provided nothing in return to fill the holes in me you were leaving behind. 

And, eventually, you’ll toss me out with the rest of the things you don’t want anymore. The rest of the things that are now broken and no longer have the ability fill you up – to ease your pain. 

You’ll toss me out as if I wasn’t once the twinkle in your eyes, the spark in your fingertips, the whisper on your lips. As if I wasn’t once the thing that made your world and head spin, like I wasn’t the thing that created the euphoric feeling in your belly a roller coaster creates, just by simply being in my arms. 

I gave you all the best parts of me, I kept my broken pieces for myself and handed over the healed ones to help heal you too. And now, I have nothing left to give. My remaining pieces are shattered and tattered and unhealed. My remaining pieces are of no use to you.

And so, I guess it’s time for you to go. For you to leave me to collect my broken pieces, leave me to repair the holes you left behind. 

The strings to my heart have been cut. They cannot be strummed into sweet music. I cannot hear the melody and, so, I lose the melodic sound my words once I had. It cannot come out of my mouth anymore and my strings cannot be brushed by the hands of someone who loves me – I guess that means they also cannot be bruised by the hands of someone who doesn’t.

I don’t know what “it” is, but I know “it” has sunken to the bottom of my stomach, it’s ridden the waves of acid and killed all of the butterflies in its rising tides and storm surge.

I have begged for “it”, begged for “it” to come back to my chest. I have told “it” that it’s safe up here, that I will be my heart-songs protection, I have told “it” that I miss what’s it’s like to feel.

But it’s dark down there, and my heart feels safer in the cold than it did in the reach of your fingertips.

I think “it” might be my heart.

I think “it” lives there now.