A heart never breaks smooth.
It shatters like a vase,
or a smashed china plate,
leaving thousands of pieces
scattered all over the ground.

(There might still be a broom in the closet,
the one underneath the stairs.
I don’t think you’ll have to push past
too many of my boxes to get there.)

Putting it back together?
That s*** hurts.
Each and every fragment
is rough and jagged,
and like shards of glass
they’ll cut deep -
even into the most calloused skin.

(I found your old work gloves
while packing the rest of my things.
I hope you don’t mind that I threw them away,
they were full of tiny holes anyway.)

You can’t just tape a heart back together,
and glue sure as hell won’t fix it.
It needs time.
It has to be remade, not just repaired.

(The U-Haul is parked out front.
Why aren’t you looking at me?
I guess you changed your mind,
but that’s okay,
I’ve always liked it better without you anyway.)