My Heart Belongs To The Ghosts Of My Past

My heart belongs to the ghosts of my past that took pieces of me and never gave them back. I am unsure of which pieces belong to whom or how I would go about claiming them again as mine. Perhaps, maybe they no longer belong to me, a gift that I gave for safe-keeping, but instead served as a toy thrown away when bored of.

Pieces of my heart now sit on the shelves of all the boys whom I once loved, some in shoe boxes, others stuck between books, others thrown haphazardly into jars of coins or miscellaneous junk. My heart, to them, remains no more important than the trinket toy that they got out of the coin machine that they cared for enough to take home and put on the shelf, but never to remember to pick up again.

If the place where my heart should be were placed under a telescope, the empty and fragmented spaces where the missing pieces should be would overwhelm the pieces which still remain intact, cracked and hardly in its place. The echoes of the ghosts’ laughs would cut the chill vastness and emptiness of my heartland.

I’m begging, please, I do not have any more of my heart to spare.

That was when I learned the truth. The ghosts stole the pieces of my heart that I could never get back, forever tainted by pain and in the pieces’ places lay emptiness. However, what I learned over time was that the pieces regenerate. For the more I learn to love myself and the more I learn to love others better, colorful stained-glass pieces appear to fill the emptiness.

The ghosts took away my weakness, they did not take away me. They took away the pieces of my heart which I no longer needed. They took away darkness from my heart so that it could be replaced with light that would forever illuminate. My heart had to be broken to become more beautiful and strong. For this, I would like to say thank you to my ghosts because you took everything away so I could learn that everything I needed was already inside of me.