I.

When my heart fractured, it wasn’t beautiful. It was just broken. The edges cut deep into muscle and soul. I was more exhaustion than man, brittle and shaking. But if there’s one lesson my childhood taught me, it’s “don’t leave a mess.” So I picked up the shards, letting the tears bleed.

II.

Can you glue a heart back together with whispers of hope and the memory of dreaming? Or will it always be broken, even if you can find its shape again? I didn’t know. I fumbled the pieces into shape, and I hoped.

III.

It became a meditation, fitting one piece with the next, bridging colors and atriums, reconnecting arteries and emotion. Sometimes I lost the thread of hope and had to start again. Sometimes the tears washed a piece free. I may have fractured, but I did not crumble, and slowly, I became art.

IV.

Maybe I was always a masterpiece and you just taught me to forget. My heart casts a thousand reflections, every one of them beautiful, as I learn to love again.

V.

I start with myself.