Everyone said I was a survivor, and for a long time it was true. Whatever happened, I always picked myself up and remembered how to smile and to laugh again. I learnt to bevel the jagged edges of every cruel shard that pierced my heart, and although they resisted eviction, my labour removed some of the sting, leaving a broad ache, but there is a limit to how much broken glass one heart can hold, and today I think mine has exceeded it. My heart appears split in two. I feel the shrapnel hitting against my ribcage; no longer contained by that sad little vessel that fought so hard to stay in one piece. Blood spits and drips down the cracked walls of my existence. I have felt almost this way before, but this time it is different. How can I survive this?
Written for The Sandbox Writing Challenge 40: What makes you a survivor?
©Jane Paterson Basil