Sometimes it’s mutual trauma that draws us to our lovers. The scars on our hearts draw out the same patterns. The way you left broke the most delicate part of me. You knocked this child down on your way out, smashing her into tiny pieces, and I sit here with her, mouth full of shards, and bloodied hands that snap, crackle and pop as they clench around the sharp edges of her pain. My pain. So what if the vase breaks?
