Today I cried on the shower floor, curled up under the stream of water,
Each droplet a sting from the butterflies from my stomach that turned into bees.
The trouble with a broken heart is that it can't be pieced back together when someone else has has half of the pieces.
I hope you keep my heart pieces in your pockets.
I hope my heart pieces feel like rocks in your pockets with just enough weight for you to know they are there, so that you know a part of me is still with you.
Because in my pocket rock heart pieces are enough weight to let you know that, then that means you might miss me.
And maybe then one day I'll slide my hands into my pockets and find pocket rock heart pieces that belong to you.
The butterflies haven't stopped stinging.
Only, now they're cocooned in my ribcage, rattling around inside until my bones feel like the china in the shop the bull was in:
Scarred, broken, shattered.
