beauty.

beauty is found in the pieces of the fragments of what you think is your heart, but may be just your life, and you call it your heart because it seems smaller somehow, even though that doesn't really help matters much because really, you are your heart and you know it. or you want to be, even when it's like this, even when these pieces, luminescent, transparent, capturing light and never letting go, even when these pieces are deceptively hard. and you know because after staring at these pieces of yours, imagining the possibilities of reconstruction, you get impatient, and reach to pick them up, and the pieces are stiff and hurting and don't want to be touched, and they cut you a little, and you see a drop of blood in the palm of your hand, but it doesn't hurt. no. it's the pieces. the pieces hurt. these fragments are so achingly beautiful, and you wonder about their separation from each other, and wonder when they will stop hurting. what hurts you is not the blood, but the sharp intake of breath. the signal of fear that is noiseless.