I’m Going To Break My Own Heart

I’m going to break my own heart.

It’s not like I have experience; I’m not qualified or certified and there’s certainly no user’s manual for the thing so I’m just going to have to take my best guess, just going to steal my cues from films and novels and people I used to know.

I’ll tell myself I’m only good enough to be kissed in the backs of bars where no one we know is looking, only good enough for purposeful and meaningless late night cab rides that our driver will be all too familiar with and you know, casual things of that nature. I will not expect to meet your parents, I will not expect you to show up at my door with soup when I’m not well enough to chase you around this city, I will not expect you at all and this seems to be the quietest way, the best way to become broken because it’s so silent and seamless that it’s like nothing’s even happening.

Or maybe I’ll present you with every expectation I’ve ever had: the one where our pinkies mindlessly find one another when we’re walking sidebyside and the one where I don’t always have to call first and the one where I’m allowed to, wordlessly, leave an extra sweater toothbrush lipstick at your place because it’s convenient for me and that’s reason enough. I’ll hand over all of those expectations, give ’em all to you with no questions asked, walk away quickly so that I don’t have to watch you hold them all in your arms and think, what the fuck am I supposed to do with all of this?

I may be going about this the wrong way though; maybe breaking myself is like, performance art or something. Maybe I should invest in some sort of platform in a town square and stand on top of it reciting all of the missteps my stupid, thoughtless heart has forced me to take, that off-beat and broken compass ticking in my chest. Maybe I should chastise it, tell it it’s useless and misinformed and directionally-challenged; maybe I should tell it how it’s the ugliest part of me, uglier than toenails and moles and hairs that creep past their lines. And then — because this is art, because this is a show — I can charge admission, turn a profit while I make my audience question the malfunctioning devices moving in their chests. When the day is done, I’ll go home and spend the money on drugs or ice cream or whatever broken-hearted people spend their money on.

I guess it’s reasonable to wonder why I’d do something like this, but not really. I’m doing it because it’s bound to happen anyway. I’m doing it because just one time, I’d like to be the one in control.

I’m doing it so that you can’t.