Yet another piece of my heart

The table was full of food, yet he chose my heart for the main course. Piece by piece, my heart is vanishing in front of my eyes. When I think that there is none of it left for him to feast on, he proves me wrong. Day by day, my heart is ripped apart, cut into tiny shreds, and served on a cobalt plate. And when I think it has healed and can finally hear it beat again, he asks for yet another piece. And how can I dare to say no? How can I refuse this broken man who needs to feed to feel something more? 

There were times when he demanded only tears and drank them like a dandelion wine, but as time passed by, he required more until he had my heart in one hand and the glass of tears in the other. And yet I stayed, not moving as he devoured my heart once more. It is all worth it, I told myself, it is worth giving and not expecting anything back. It is worth giving my heart away, leaving it to him to play with and feast on, as love needs sacrifices, and this should be one of them… 

“But where is his sacrifice, where is something in return?!”, says the inner voice suddenly while I play with my salad leaves. 

“Why does he think he cannot give back? Why does he think he is more broken than all of us? Why does he think his pain is so unique?!” I try to stop the train of thoughts, yet they come back like waves, crushing my soul. 

“What is so special about this broken man? Look at his hands - full of blood. Look at his eyes - empty with no depth. Look at his mouth - full with the blades that cut you like nothing else.” 

He takes one more bite as I am drowning in my thoughts, taking deep breaths, sipping water as quickly as I can. He does not notice, he carries on. Not a single question from the man I call my love. 

“Perhaps the best trait he has is your heart,” the voice suddenly says. 

Suddenly, the blood pours down his shirt, making him go mad. 

“Look at what you did!” he raises voice, leaving the table and locking himself in the bathroom. 

“You gave him your heart, and he complained about the amount of blood.” the voice quietly whispers

“Everyone suddenly becomes wiser in other people’s wars”, I say back to the voice that sounds like my mother, my sister, and all my friends who I have abandoned because I could not take their scolding anymore. And I know my arguments and words sound silly, like those coming from the mouth of a stubborn child who does not want to eat breakfast. I spoke like this when I hated the food my mom put in front of me, or that one time when I did not want to go to sleep, or the time when I crushed mom’s expensive plate and refused to admit it in front of my parents. 

I know I sound silly, I know I look blind. 

The bathroom door opens, he comes back, takes his seat, and continues without looking at me. And yet again, I stare at this man consumed by his pain, drowning in the dark waters and seeing no escape. Feasting on hearts is the only means that keeps him from dying of pain. The bigger the portion, the better it is.

Now, he uses his hands, not even cutting the pieces slowly like he used to do. He finds it hard to bite into it, but he does not give up and is determined to finish his job.

I smile, but I can’t stand it anymore. 

The clock is ticking continuously. Time passes by. I have spent so much time on this man who has eaten me alive. How can I leave now? I have given so much. Was all this pain for nothing? Was this sacrifice unnecessary? The clock whispers about the tragedy that my life has become, and in this moment, I wish I could freeze everything just for several minutes before I figure out what I need to do next. But time passes by and does not stop for anyone, and if it did pause due to all the tragedies and inconveniences that surround us, it would forever stand still. 

 

Blood drips from his hands. He starts eating faster. I feel sick to my stomach, but he does not stop. I want to shout, throw something at him, make him feel the pain. And yet I sit surrounded by this sudden hatred. Feeling unable to move. I want to throw myself at him, scratch his eyes out, take out his heart, and rip it apart.

“How does that feel?” I would ask after observing his shocked face.

“How does it feel when someone is tearing you apart?” But I know I can't do that because he wouldn't feel a thing; to tear out a heart, he’d need to have one in the first place. Once, during the evening, after my silent cries, I put my head on his chest and listened to his heart. It was barely beating, barely making the noise while mine was about to jump out of my chest and crawl out of the window and into the dark. 

I gave him my beating heart for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and it was still not enough. And now, as the clock is taking my youth away, I sit in silence, still unable to move. I am slowly melting into the chair, barely recognizing the person I once used to be. Now, my life is wasting away while I sit and stare at this broken man, trying to understand his next move while my heart is being ripped apart. Once I find the strength to leave, I will forget his face and the sound of his voice, but I will never be able to get rid of the memory of the shell of the person I was around him. The memory will persist and remind me of the time I lost. 

But for now, I sit and stare while he makes his way through the last bites. Then he will stand up and go to bed, leaving a messy table for me to clean, without saying thank you or expressing any type of love. I will clean up the table, wipe out my tears, take a shower, and start healing my heart. I will wait until he falls asleep to crawl next to him so I do not hear his words that cut like a thousand knives. And the next day, perhaps, I will find the strength to open the door and never look back again. The voices will follow and remind me of the time when the table was full of food, yet he chose my heart for the main course.