They call it heartbreak

but nothing is broken.
I wake up the next day
a child again, curious and eager,
a wanderer on the moon.
There is no violence here,
only a new routine.
I make the bed, brush my hair,
unravel the tangles,
wash my face from last night’s tears.
They call it heartbreak
as if it leaves behind a hollow girl
clutching her stomach, reaching skyward
for a thousand white balloons
filled with stifled air:
This is what it feels like to lose everything.
And everything you love will leave you, too.
But I am not a hollow girl,
and I reach for nothing now.
My hands rest in my pockets
as I watch them leave me.

I let you leave me.
I set you free.

I open the window.
I remember it is springtime,
the sticky sweet middle of April,
and allow myself to bloom.

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