they collect heart strings

pull on mine and  remind of who I used to be, of what I used to do, how I used to be

my heart can't take much pain anymore

it's become fragile, weak,

I collect memories and strain them through a dream catcher, drinking the juices left in the bottom of the bowl held precariously underneath

wipe the sticky black liquid dripping from my chin and shatter the bowl

feeding the leftover dreams to the dark

I can't even cry anymore, but oh how I've tried. For that sweet release, the exhausting effort it takes to stop, a work out for my heart

it's funny how a waterspout can suddenly run so dry.

I collect their compliments and store them in a crevice under my ribs, keeping them safe and mulled over.

it's funny how so much can go on under the surface- when all I am to them is me