No ˚3

The first time I got my heart broken,
I thought it would have never gotten worse.
Imagine the sound of a million bones breaking and being reset over and over again.
Imagine the echoes.
Imagine the muted moans of agony.
That’s what it felt like.
My heart fissured.

It was easily a 5 on the Richter scale.

The second time I had my heart broken was minimal.
It wasn’t even a break.
It was a little trembling of the earth.
It shook me up and knocked me for 6,
but I quickly recovered.
If you were to ask me about that instigator to this day, it would take me a while to register that our lives did indeed intersect.
I pass number two in the street and all I feel is the bittersweet surprise of a long buried memory resurfacing

The third time was the killer.
It wasn’t until my heart got broken for the third time that I realized number two was just scrape with no scarring and number one was just the devil tap dancing on the fault line of my heart.

If number one was a superficial crack then number three came in and fucked shit up. He came into my life and hit the sweet spot.
It wasn’t a break. I splintered from the centre all the way to the very edges. My heart was like a broken phone screen when he walked in. There were a few fingerprints on it. But sawfff, those were easily wiped away.

In high school this girl with a red ukelele explained pressure points on glass to me. And she spoke about her iPod screen. About how it fell a million times and nothing ever happened to it. But one time it got what she thought to be a superficial fall and a small stone just hit that sweet spot and the whole thing just shattered. That’s what number three did

Suffice to say, I don’t like the number 3 anymore.