It takes a whole cicada cycle for a broken heart to heal.
I know because I can still feel all the blood rushing out, making it a hollow shell.
Hear it crack, then shatter. Little pieces falling to the floor with tiny pings.
Almost drowned out by the blur of screaming outside.
A propped window reminds me I’m a blip while he gathers his shit.
I hear nature raging, earth’s systems interlocking to keep up the slow spin.
I hold my breath waiting for a satisfying slam of the door but it clicks closed quietly.
I stomp over to open it again and bang it shut myself.
Then I stood there for a while. The car backing out
was over quick, but the waves of wailing stayed for weeks.
The static soothed me when I couldn’t pick a feeling to feel.
Listening to the elusive insects scheming, planning
their next lifetime. And starting to do the same.
For months I heard them buzzing and bumbling
before burrowing themselves – you need to go deep.
Stay there as seasons change, as time passes.
And you don’t really do anything but mature.
Or just age out of the pain, and maybe grow up a little.
I can describe the tissue and arteries fusing back together in my chest,
but not without hearing their constant chaos emerging,
excited chirping as they start to surface and crawl about again.
And I can too, after seven years.
Feeling the sun on my face, getting a hug from all the tiny noises saturating the air.
They leave their empty selves everywhere and do a slow squirm away.
Armor that protected everything vital is just fragile skin that disintegrates.
I see my heart’s shell in each one and stomp it out with a crunch,
Getting a little more life back every time. The freshly born bodies
continue their commotion, and I love how the sounds overlap.
