With Love

It was then that I realized I was going to serve up my heart to you. On a platter, with stuffing made from the tissues I’d used to stem the tide from your cruelty, and the detritus of my soul for seasoning. It was the moment that you turned your head as I kissed you, smirking as I pecked your cheek like a love-sick mynah. Hearing the sound, I looked down and wondered what fool would ever throw her heart at your feet, for you would only use it as an amusement. My soul followed as it answered the thought, letting me know that my folly was complete. The next day, I watched you from afar, knew that the woman at your table was another just like me. No carving knife was needed, my heart shredded itself, conveniently. Days later, when you refused to answer my calls, it prepared a decorative bed on a silver salver, arranged itself just so. I did not see you come in, did not see you dine. There is nothing left on the shiny surface. I assume you ate the garnish as well. How rude.