he put my heart in a box and shipped it to burma.

i got a broken heart for my birthday. i real broken heart. it wasn't wrapped though because it was my heart. i mean who wraps things they borrowed from other people? no one. i was just handed my broken heart and i watched silently as the boy dug into my chest with his rusty shovel [not spoon, shovel] and left me a hole to fill. the pain didn't seem to come until many hours later and perhaps even a day later.. but when it came, trust me it hurt.

the pain washed over my skin like a tidal wave on the banks of china when the meteor hits in that crazy movie armageddon. there was nothing but the pain. just the pain. i watched it crawl in my pores and try to suffocate my lungs. it ate at my skin and nestled itself in my hair. there was nothing i could do but wait for the pain to wash itself away.

as the pain washes away i am left with the small shell of myself. my battered ego and tear stained cheeks are all i have to show for the battle i waged against the pain. the screaming could be heard for miles but the aftermath of our battle left only tears on my sheets and cuts on my skin.

for days i didn't sleep. i would say the words to people "i'm going to sleep" so there was really no worry. no reason to worry about yana. it's just a litle broken heart. nothing to worry about. but instead i would walk around my big back yard, press dying leaves into my palms and cry silent tears into my warm sweatshirts. i would stay out there for hours and sleep in the afternoon with as much noise as i could create. the noise kept the voices in my head from reminding me of the pain. the horrible.. horrible pain.

the whole world has told me to move on and i'm trying.

i sat brushing up on my italian with a boy i hardly knew the other day. i had to because soon my mother is stealing me away to visit aunts, uncles and great italian paintings. as i remembed key phrases and insults i laughed. i laughed. a real laugh. the kind of laugh that comes from the bottom of your stomach. it filled my quiet room with joy... not pain.

he sat for hours teaching me things in reality i already knew. including that my pain was not so bad. he listened to me intently with his piercing green eyes and he nodded intelligent nods and he let me get it all out. perhaps strangers are the people who teach you the most with out really knowing it. despite all the conversations i'd had with close friends and all the hours i spent trying to make sense of my pain with sam.. it took a stranger to make sense ot if all.. a plain and simple stranger who taught me how to say "come give mamma a big hug!" in italian.

it was hours after he left [when i fell asleep for real in my bed] that i realized .. i realized that my almost dying heart in the corner of my room under my contaminated bed needed me to stop the pain and find real joy..

so.. i am.