“Are you alive” read the text message. He’s been sending me a message every day. Two yesterday. Two yesterday, none today. I keep looking for it. I know why he texted me this question, because I’m not responding, because I’m ignoring his texts, because it’s a question I texted him once when he stopped responding to me.
Am I alive? I feel like responding, I want to respond. I want to answer. “NO. It’s not possible to live without a heart. You took mine and broke it then gave it back to me in pieces. And then when I finally thought I had all the pieces together you decided to start talking to me, to start texting me. And the pieces in my hands fell to the ground and shattered and now I don’t know where to start. Of course I am dead. I have been dead since the day you stopped talking to me. You remember that day? It was the day after you said you loved me and wanted to be with me. You’d broken my heart before, taken little pieces and crushed them beneath your feet but this was the grand slam knock out tour de force, this was the piece de resistance. I gave you my whole heart to hold and you threw it to the ground.
No I am not alive. Part of me wants to Rest In Peace and the other part, the scattered fragments of heart still hope, still want, still yearn for you to return. Those scattered fragments know you could make them whole again with just a word, just a touch. The shards of my heart want you back but my head knows that if you throw my heart away again I may not survive at all, that perhaps being dead is better than dying. That pain fades, nerves die and numbness, being the living dead, a heartless zombie is possible. My head wants to crush the last of the shards, to shut them down, to Rest in Pieces.
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