Give up.

I give up.

I give into the pain tearing me apart from the inside out.

My heart has been ripped to shreds, stomped upon and scattered to the wind.

My love, my soul-mate, my heart's desire calls others 'sweetheart', tells them they are lovely.
Asks for pictures and cell phone numbers.
Tell them they are missed and longs to be close to them.

I no longer mean anything more than someone to cook and clean.
A nanny to our boys.

How can I mean so little so soon?

How will I go on?

Please stomp a little harder,
                   I can still breathe.

Pieces of Life

Long long ago all the pieces were in place... not complete, but in place, making a picture for all to see.  These pieces in themselves do not a picture make. This special picture of pieces changes until its end. The Fates and life have pulled and tweaked, moving the pieces as time has moved on, changing the picture until no more.
People, places, things have taken pieces, to keep near their hearts, to rely upon, to use for their own picture without regard to the original picture or piece, to leave in the gutter drowning in the rain water. New pieces are far and few between... coming in with great joy or destruction. Each piece has its place and role in the master picture.
The most precious pieces are the pieces given with love to be cherished by another, to make the other complete.  When a piece is given out of love it does not leave emptiness in its wake. Pieces given in love are the strongest, if poorly treated, the piece will not return to its place in the picture as it once was. Broken, torn, damaged it fits... but no longer shines. It changes the picture.
Pieces loved by another fill the space until it overflows to the other pieces. Melding, meshing, it becomes the glue that holds the picture together through its ever changing life. Through the storms and trials bestowed upon the piece by the Fates, the glue holds firm, though during the ice storms sometimes cracks and small chinks form until temperatures warm up to reseal the pieces together again. Binding, surrounding, protecting each piece is the lifeblood of the glue. It must not fail lest the pieces shatter forever, never to become the picture intended by the Fates. The pieces rely upon the strength of the glue to get them through the storms intact as a whole picture, not individual pieces to be picked up and put slowly back together until a new picture emerges.
Only the Fates know if the glue is strong enough to protect the pieces. To weather the storms, to fight for the pieces, to become a part of the picture forever.

Old Writings 7

Broken and torn. Pulled in opposite directions by unseen forces. Both pulling relentlessly. Neither giving reprieve.

Torn between past and future. Past being time whithered and safe. The future gleaming. Unsure and yet so tempting. Sparkling so brightly just out of reach.

Pulled between tradition and the desires of the heart.

Aching and torn. So confused she lays her heart open. Awaiting the press of cold steel as it bites in, leaving its mark against her soul. Open and bleeding she lays there crying. Hide me. Steal me. Keep me. Lock me away forever, she cries. Never let me go. Save my heart.

Broken and bleeding she stays curled upon the hard ground. Her tears mingling with the rain as it splashes against her lifeless form. Love me. Keep me. The wind echoes the cry of her heart... keep me....