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Ever have one of those moments that you must write, must put pen to paper or you will explode? I wrote the following story/poem/thing many moons ago, but I still remember. All is truth, even the happy ending. I decided to post it because of Ali’s love story contest (congrats on the wedding!), but that really is just an excuse. Sometimes I need to remember, is all. Remember the good and the bad.

******

The one you want is rarely the one you need, at least at the beginning of things.

At the beginning all things are bright and shiny-new, including the soft pink little girl heart. It flutters ever so prettily and sings in its single-minded way of true love, of bad boys redeemed, of the utter trust it has for this wonderful young man. How could he ever hurt you, it trills. He even said he wouldn’t. Said he was different from the others in the group home. What more do you need?

The first bruises to the heart are innocent enough, and heal fairly quickly. Can’t call- not allowed. Can’t write- not allowed. One stolen afternoon- severely punished. (Did you bother to wonder why the restrictions were so harsh?) (We don’t ask that sort of thing) (might change his mind) (don’t ask) (ask) (don’t) (don’t dare)

Little girl hearts are surprisingly tough. Surprisingly stupid. He walks in with two friends, begs a ride to see a cousin in a hospital. The little girl voice drowns out the objections, the half-formed something’s not right lost in the howls of righteous sugar-pink indignation. It even bullies the father into helping, wisdom of age subsumed.

The kiss is slipshod, hasty (is that disgust in his ey-) {NO WE WILL NOT ALLOW IT} and he is gone.

Gone.

Parents unknown come seeking. He was caught, kicked out. They want him back. It means the same thing.

Gone.

Whispered I love yous.

Gone.

Warm body to hold.

Gone.

Warm lips, just starting to be explored.

Gone.

SweetsourapplelovehategonegonegoneGONE-

The little girl heart is badly bruised, beating spasmodically, but still fights. Filtered email gives shoddy life support. Holding tightly to dribbles, old photos, hastily scrawled love notes. Its going, going, going…

BANG!

He pulled up!

BANG!

The soft pinkness is vindicated. In the rain, he came. That is love in his eye. He came. Came back. Storybook ending. “And they rode off happily into the sunset (cue trumpets)”.

Phonecalls every weekend, descriptions of a new life, a clean chance. A new family.

Bad news in sheep’s clothing.

“Come meet my folks and me at Such-and-Such hotel. We’re in for the weekend.”

Frantic driving. Utter excitement.

Puzzlement.

No room for you. He has a new life now. New people to love. What may have been true (did he ever lov-) {WE WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!!} no longer applies. A frantic hug, a gentle kiss but still he slips away. He never calls; you have to{shut up}. You aren’t worth special effort {SHUT UP}, not worth diverting attention from his new life {SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BITCH!!!}.

The little girl heart- bleeding, erratic, blind (not blind enough)- holds out as long as it can, but the ending is inevitable.

As a test, you don’t call one weekend.

Two weekends.

Three weekends.

Four months.

Two years.

Complete and utter silence.

***

The little pink girlheart is long gone, crumbled to shards in the grinding, everpresent silence. From the ashes a new heart arose. It is warped, bubbled, scarred, pitted. The staples show, the duct tape too, and still, somewhere in there the ghost of the pink fool cries for dreams lost. It weeps, having learned its lesson too well, too late.

You have grown up.

Huzzah.

***
A new man has come.

He sees your heart in all its ugly glory. Sees you at your best and your worst. Runs his hands over the rough patches of this new heart, the one that fits you better than you thought it would. You have grown used to the gentle, dull ache, like the lover he never was (who can blame him). Sends chills down your spine as those strong fingertips caress the battered thing.

He finds it. That hole. You fill with dread as he stares at it. The hole into your heart.

Will he do it? Will he be exactly like that other (what was his name?)? Will he rip it apart just like before?

He stares at it and slowly starts to smile.

He carefully pulls out his heart, showing his own holed, fix-it-yourself organ. With that same, fragile, beautiful smile he fits them together.

They are beautiful together.

You are beautiful together.

Perfection in the pain.

Beauty in the broken.