i’m watching myself through the reflection, i look as dead as i feel. the eyeliner isn’t as smudged as it was last night. i’m trying to pick up the pieces of the hearts that i’ve broken. maybe they’ll fit together to make mine. i want to help myself with all the pieces and lay them on a plain sheet so i can judge them separately and inspect even their littlest flaws. I see my mother come but she isn’t looking at me, she’s looking at what i was trying to piece back together. she nods as if she understands, i try to look into her eyes. but i’m just a reflection. soon she stands in front of me and i’m no longer the reflection. i try to pick up the pieces now, but they’re slippery. they slipped past my fingers just as quickly as i did from yours. i spill milk over the pieces and try to create a masterpiece. i’ve never been an artist but i could always paint the sky. i’ve never been a writer but i could always make my words dance. i’ve never been a lover but i could always break their hearts. i take the pieces and paste them, i try to create a shape but they don’t fit well with each other. they have cracks over them and they keep changing colours. i grab the one that looks new and break it into two more pieces. i can feel the wicked smile creeping to my face but the tears form just as quickly. the heart looks sad now, i want to piece it back together. i’m the reflection again, i want to help myself with gathering all the pieces and put them together to make it look like a heart, somewhat similar to mine but i’m a mere reflection and I’ll never have any hands, or perhaps a voice.
(the title was inspired by this book i have, “my heart and other black holes,” by jasmine warga)