I was supposed start a new job on Monday. I kept seeing this guy kissing her, touching her, her allowing it. I kept seeing her walking across the grass toward me, her long hair shiny in the light, a hole in her jeans just over her knee. I stayed up all night vomiting yellow nerve acid.

I borrowed the car and drove toward my sister’s. It was a different kind of tired, this sick fatigue I had never felt. The earth was not solid. It existed in waves. Every fixture was a sign of grief. Every animal, every walker and driver took on postures of liquid. My stomach was on cold fire. My heart had split and stretched out to a dripping string, wrapping my ribs and spine together to where they bowed in the middle. What I saw next was pure insanity, a gift from the devil himself.

At a red light I saw a sign that read UNIVERSAL WASH. Under it was this creep leaning into Helena's car and kissing her. She was laughing. I went into shock. The heartstring tightened and everything snapped at once. The odds of me seeing that were impossible. The cosmic assholes above reached down and wriggled a slimy finger in my ear. A car honked behind me and I turned around right there in the intersection, nearly caused an accident, and flew back to my room.

I counted my money: $216.00. I packed a small backpack and got on my bike. I pedaled east across the state until it was pitch black and I collapsed from fatigue.

I woke up just outside of Mesa. I called my brother and he drove out. I asked him to pick up my things and take them to my sister’s. I gave him my house key and told him to take the bike. After he loaded it I had him drop me off at an on-ramp by the freeway. I stuck my thumb out. After an hour a jeep with Iowa plates stopped. The guy was an older neo-surfer type. He asked me where I was headed. I told him I was going to Iowa.

dull

even after months of smooth skin you can trace the line from my hip bone to my breast where you slipped in and cut the red wire

it's like when you're both pulling so hard but the other person lets go and next thing you know your back is against the wall and there's blood on your hand

I'm not accusing you of tearing out my heart because I gave it to you but it was your scissors that left it in pieces too small to see and it doesn't hurt the way it did anymore

I have screamed in the night due to the agony you put me through but this

this is heartache

every time I hear your name I remember a bit of your face and did you know that the necklace he gave me is the exact color of your eyes? even through another I can't escape your gaze

pain has never been so unobtrusive

sometimes I forget it hurts did you know there are people who live their day to day without this

this isn't something you get over it's something you get through

He was a musician. I was an aspiring actress. He had a cat. I was allergic to it. So was he. Yet somehow, we all managed to fall in love with each other. I wasn't expecting to but I fell for him very quickly and very hard.

He made me laugh. That's what sealed the deal. I have a good sense of humor, but the most you'll normally get out of me is a chuckle and a guffaw. But he could make me laugh so hard that my face would turn red, and no sound would come out and I'd look like I was having an asthma attack. Now that's comedy.

So things were good when he left New York to tour Paris with A Chorus Line. I stayed behind to take care of his cat.

There were no cell phones back then, no pagers, no email. So we agreed that he'd call me every Sunday night, eight o'clock New York time. I never missed one of those calls for the first 4 weeks. Then, on the fifth Sunday, the phone did not ring. I'm sure I hadn't missed it because I was practically sitting on that phone.

Week six, nothing.

Somewhere between weeks seven and eight, I received a letter. It was a short one. He had met a music producer who wanted him to lay down some tracks in the studio. It was a big opportunity. Oh, and he'd also met Lydia. She was French. She was a dancer. He was in love with her. He would return to the States soon and would come by to pick up his cat. He was sorry.

Anger. That's the first thing I felt. Why was he even talking to another woman? We had something special. Did he really think a European fling was something genuine? Didn't he recognize vacation sex for what it was? You fall for someone while on vacation and it all seems very romantic. Then you get home and the whole things fades to sepia within a month. After two months, you can't really be certain you remember what the other person looked like. And gee that was fun, but it wasn't real.

Embarrassment, that was emotion number two. I felt like a chump; taking care of his pet, sitting by the phone...and the whole time he's with Lydia, making her laugh the soundless laugh, soaking up her exotic French accent...all in one of the most romantic cities on planet Earth. What I fool I was.

Resignation. Once you cross me, you do not get a second chance. I'm not being punitive. It's just the way I am. I've always been this way. And I will never ask you back, or beg you to stay. When it's over, it's over. That's my nature.

I threw the letter away, and took a hot shower. The water was supposed to wash him off me, but instead it created a flood, a flood of tears, of memories, of wishes and regrets. And then I felt the strangest sensation, like something roiling in my belly, creeping up through my chest, lodging in my throat until I reflexively opened my mouth. It exhaled out of me; the most primal cry. It was raw and loud. I felt all my energy go with it and it nearly knocked me to the shower floor. I'd never experienced anything like it, and it completely caught me off guard. But right away, I knew exactly what it was. Heartache.

His words were like fingers plunging through my chest. Grabbing hold of my still beating heart.

Instantly stealing my breath. Grasping

crushing

ripping

then pulling

you freed me of its rhythm so easily.

It still beating in your hand, momentarily hoping you will place it back where it belongs.

But instead you drop it onto the floor.

stomping on it until it beat no more.

Then with a cocky grin you walk away as I lie dying on the floor in a pool of tears.

Unable to breath.

And with a heart which no longer beats.

That is heartache to me.

When you're tired and your stomach feels empty,

And you can't keep your head up anymore,

When you're unsure and unstable and lost,

And no map has directions to salvation,

When you're hurt and no syringes will heal you,

When gauze just covers symptoms and blood,

When you're filled with a nothing that pulls you in,

When you lose what you love and you hate that you ever did.

You're feeling very diminished and completely subdued. The love of your life is completely disinterested in you, and refuses to have anything to do with you.

Then, one day she suddenly offers to meet you at a certain spot, at an appointed time. She then heads off as you stand open mouthed as your dream girl hurries away, your eyes wide with the sudden change of mind. You turn and hurry homeward to prepare for your date and buy her some whimsy as a token.

You arrive early at the appointed spot, your mind reeling with excitement at the prospect of what may come. You practise what you will say to her repetitively in order to appear confident, your heart thumps against your chest with the anticipation of seeing her. What will she think of you?

You are so excited you fail to notice the minutes ticking away until suddenly you see it is time, but she is not there. It's okay you reason, as all girls like to be fashionably late for dates, and the clock on the church tower has only just struck.

You wait patiently as the minutes tick away, and you tell yourself that she'll be here any minute. Your mouth is dry with excitement as you peer about looking to spot her approach, but still the minutes tick away and a glance at the clock confirms she is now very late indeed.

You tell yourself that it's okay, that there's a good reason she is so late and you convince yourself she will show up soon......but creeping doubts tickle away at your mind as you stride about cursing your luck and the clock tells you she is now almost twenty minutes late.

The gnawing feeling in your stomach and the doubts in your mind combine to give you a worried and agitated look. You pace about as you desperately search your intellect for a reason as to why.........and the clock strikes the half-hour mark as you fidget and argue the point in your mind.

Then, out of the blue it hits you full in the face.

She isn't coming. But you force it to the back of your mind as your love for her overcomes your doubt and you resolve to wait longer, certain she will at least send word.

But a further fifteen minutes slowly creep past as your doubts begin to gnaw at your mind, until at last, head bowed you turn and trudge homeward, thoroughly and totally broken.

You don't eat for the rest of the day and lock your door as your mood sinks and the blackness overcomes you. Eventually you fall into sleep, though your mind repeats its solemn message....fool....you're a fool.......a fool.

The following day you seek her out, convinced she will run to you with an apology and explanation. And then you spy her, walking, and laughing with her friends. You hurry toward her, smiling and waving, and she sees you.

And she points to you, and she turns to her friends and says something, and as one they all begin to laugh at you, and the look in their eyes says it all, and the laughter pierces your heart in great stabs. The laughter continues as you slowly realise that she set you up, and you watch as they hurry off, still giggling at the joke.

A tear fills your eyes, you turn and casually toss your whimsy to the ground.

And that is heartache.

It's bitter cold and I'm uncertain I can breathe. I try, but I'm not sure I really want to. Somehow, the sun didn't rise, this morning so I stumble around in the dark, a stranger in my own skin. Yesterday, this was my home. A place of warmth and safety, where friends dropped in for coffee and we had riotous dinner parties. But it must have been replaced while I slept because the house I tiptoe around is nothing but hostile. I glance at the space on the wall where my prized painting hangs. An original, painted by one of the masters. The thing I idolized, worked for, saved for. It hangs in strips, shredded, irreperably damaged. Something cuts me as I fall to my knees and I see shards of a shattered life strewn across the floor like garbage. As much as I treasured them, it would be futile to try and repair my beloved canvas or rematch the pieces of a pulverized life. I HAVE to take that breath. The enormity of my loss will forever change me. Perhaps, in time, I'll find another masterpiece. But slowly, one step at a time, I must move away from here and invent a new life.

You pick and poke and care not where your sword lands

Accuse me of not being enough, not praising enough, not doing what you thought I should

But if being walked on is your idea of loving me then I sure as hell would rather take the "heartbreak"

Love

Just a four lettered hollow word you use to patch up my "flaws"

To make me think you truly care for me, think I'm beautiful, or strong

When you walked away I felt the final sting of heartbreak

You turned your back on me, on us, and everything we created

You leave holes too large for anything to fill and I fear I'll consist of nothing but fading aspirations if I chase after you

So I ache, and wait, for the next to come along and pray he doesn't do the same.

There is something enthralling about girls, something piquant and

captivating. I love their softness, their smells and their magic. I love

their long hair and the way their waists curve into their hips. I love

their elegance and seduction. This wonder consumes me until I realize

something essential. I love that about me, when I let myself remember

it.

As a small girl I have a favorite dress. She is the most glorious

creation I have ever seen and when I spin, my hair flies around me like

a cape, my skirt a whirlpool of color. I look forward to every morning

when I can slide out of bed and put her on. She is my best friend and

my most prized possession. She is Dressica.

My other best friend understands this completely. She has long hair

like me, and we pass the days in our beautiful dresses, singing Annie

from the landing on my stairs.

We are big stars gracing our fans with the glories of our angelic voices.

It is always the best when we have our favorite dresses on and our hair

hanging like satin sheets from our heads. Then we are queens of the

universe and everyone lives to kiss us and bring us gifts of chocolate

cake and jelly-beans.

I love my hair as much as I love Dressica. It is such a wonderfully

long, red, wave. I imagine I am a mermaid in the bathtub, swishing my

head from side to side underwater, so it floats like a sea foam cloud.

This is the perfect life and I will it to go on forever.

I loose the queenship of beautiful girlness after chemotherapy

banishes my hair and makes me too tired to care about dresses.59

Nora discovers that her grandmother Jocelyn is a witch the