It's late. So stop. Just...stop. My heart is broken enough. Splintered. And scattered. And all the pieces have spun and slid under the refrigerator to mixed in with the sticky dust and in dark corners and settling into cracks in the blackened floor next to the crumbs. Never to be swept up. Never to rejoin with the whole. Always lost always left always less. I have little. And it is fragile as the web across a lamp, heated until brittle and brushed away with fingertips clumsy and cruel and selfish, reaching for the switch. Off. On. Off. On off. You want light. Because you are frightened. And you want to visit now. Sit in my room and rewind days. Talk softly in the glow. Rewind and watch the good parts. Rewind. "That was the best...when you put your long fingers across your lips to hide your curled grin...but I saw...oh, it was the best. Remember?" You poke and touch with a thick thumb. Pick at all the scabs and raised pink scars. What's this? How did you get this? Why is there a bandage? Let me see.
Leave. Get out. You are unwelcome here. Not in this room. Not this touching. No rewinds. No fingers tangled in my hair so familiar. No reward of a memory for you. The parts of my heart all over the house...shards...cry out together. Get out. Get the hell out. You shake your head no. You have tear welled eyes. Get. Out. And then....it's just me. On the floor. In the creases. In pieces. And draped over a lamp. In the dark. Until you come again...and switch on the light. Unwelcome but missed.