No one told me that it isn’t the heart that’s the problem. It’s that my lungs are filled with concrete and I can’t breathe without you. It’s that I feel so concave, suddenly. There is nothing housed within my ribcage and any moment now, I will collapse inward. It’s that there is this burning in my throat and in my eyes. It’s that one minute I’m choking on cement and the next I am swallowing razor blades, and I can’t keep up with the changes.

The place where you lived in my chest is gone. I had tucked you into a piece of my heart and you took over. And now that you’re gone, what is there? I am an empty house of bones and muscle. I am an endless river of tears. I am sobbing in the middle of the night, because, how can I fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong? (I couldn’t begin to explain.)

I run into the darkness when I need a moment to breathe. By breathe, I mean: hyperventilate. By breathe, I mean: gasp over the shards of glass I swallowed. What I really mean is: I need to learn to breathe without you.


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