What Happens After You?

Unchanged.

Should I write? What should I write? Recently, I've been pressuring a lot of it. I keep going back and rereading everything that I write, looking for the piece of me that wrote them again. But that piece of me, the piece that was so hurt and broken inside all of the time has long since healed. At least, that part that was broken did. The rest of me I fear, will remain in several pieces.

A few months ago, I wrote about my heart break. I wrote about it in a way that wasn't broken. Because hearts don't break. Our ideas of love do. But even then, mine was not broken. My sculpture wasn't in pieces. It just simply didn't look like what I thought it looked like anymore. If I can think that way about the people who break my heart, the people who ruin my sculpture of love, why can't I think about you that way? Is it because the cause for my brokenness is not solely you anymore? Because you put so many ideas into my head and those are the root of it now? Why can't I look at you like a sculpture? Like a smooshed blob on the floor? Why can't I learn to live a life without you in it? We're almost there. I've almost lived as long without you that I did with you. Why aren't you a blob of what I used to know, that I can remold? Adjust? Adapt to how it is now? Is it because of mother's terrible taste in men? Her inability to provide someone that was supposed to be you? I don't want a replacement. I want a completely new idea. I can replace the boy who melted my love down to it's blob, and I can remake it into something else. It'll look like what I see now, the things that have changed and grown out of flames. But you, you remain the same. You were a sculpture in my gallery of art, and now, you're shattered on the floor. Because I can't remake you. I can't glue you back together, or change how I see you, or what you look like to me. Because how is the only thing I've ever known supposed to change, when it's gone?