At the support group today we had an opportunity to do a writing exercise based on a heart prompt. This was mine.

Twisted inner heart, transparent but hidden. I once was warm and pliant, but now I am cold and hard. Blue ribbons, pink ribbons, spiderwebs flung across the cavern like an explosion.
It was an explosion.
It nearly killed me.
Nearly.
But now there is beauty in the mess left behind.
There is life still slowly beating.
I am glass, waiting to shatter, but for the moment I sit in your hand, in your pocket, weighted like a large pebble. With smooth edges I slide back from where you took me. Hide me, guard me, keep me safe.
I wait for another day.

Love is not a word I use very much anymore. It is too risky. Love I left behind, buried in the ground with my son.
It is not gone – just missing. Maybe I’ll find it again someday.
The metronome tick-tocks. It is stuck in a loop, never forward, never back, just stuck, counting down from nothing to nothing. Where do I go from here? How do I find my heart again if I’m not allowed to move? I wish I could reach out and stop the beat. Or change it. But it’s not mine to touch, my arm isn’t that long. I grow restless, frustrated. This is not my beat anymore. I start to hate it, despise it.
This is not love. I’ve lost it and I need it back.