STARLESS EYES

How (Not) To Be A Heartbreaker

What a coincidence I've created. You see I've written all these lines about how I was the heart collector, the pied piper of hearts, the ruthless murderer of innocent love; but what I never mention is how I crave love. How when the love in my victim's eyes becomes too sweet, when they trail their fingertips on my skin, when they lean in too close, when they start talking about a future with children and baking - I play along. I send pictures of tea cups and personalized mugs, magazine clippings of verandas covered in potted plants, pour over the perfect way to say, "of course we should get a condo when we move in together." How I let lead them all into a false sense of security - how I wave a white flag and pretend to surrender to a love that bores me.

You see, what a coincidence that I crave the preservation of love. And oh, I do play a mean game of heartbreak. When phone calls become too often, when I begin to hear the words I love you like an overused pop song on repeat, when they whisper what they want my fingers to do, and when they beg me to give them more - I close the trap.

You see, it's a coincidence that I love to harm. Oh and I'll leave them. I always do. Crying, red faced, on their knees, screaming obscenities that bounce of my metal skin - pebbles ricocheting like hail on tin - I leave them. And then I come back. You see, in the business of heartbreaking you have to play your cards right. If I wanted a piece of a heart it would be fine to leave, but oh I wanted it all. I wanted the whole cardiovascular system to bend to my will and rush in and out of the canals of veins.

You see, cutting the aorta is way too simple. They bleed out, they lose consciousness, I take what I want, I leave. No, I like the more brutal way. Think the Mayans on their temples - more sacrificial to gods and less let me ply you with liquor so you can confess your love to me. More let's cut this organ out of you while I tell you how I never wanted anything with you, how I was pitying you all along, about how I wanted more color than the monochrome hues of your heart and less it's not you it's me.

You see, I torture them. I make them love me, I run, I come back, and then I cut out the heart. My system is flawless, and it makes me guilty. As I look at their eyes and hold their hearts I know I am ruining them, not forever but like a bone that never fully heals - the sinew will always ache. But with you I couldn't go back. One piece was one piece too many.

Maybe it's the writer in me that can't help but keep doing this, though, because is it really a coincidence that the most poetic thing I'd ever want is to be memorialized as the girl who took hearts?

And isn't it more poetic - that despite my callous nature, and then guilt, periods of isolation and extreme social interaction, and need to collect love like I do pennies - I am incapable of stopping?

It's such a coincidence, so much so that I tried to stay away from you. You see, I was more ready to give you my heart than I'd like to admit.

YET I STILL WENT TO SEE YOU