does hamburger meat stick together because it is still searching for the ghost of it's bones?
in college, i worked in a factory.
i trudged to work every monday morning at five thirty and put on gloves
to plunge into the sticky mess of beef that i weighed and clipped and submerged in.
the meat sticks together and bleeds into the same palm, which is my own.
i am livestock.
i am a nonsensical sticky mass of fat that is being pulled apart by another.
although i am trying to pull myself back together,
the bones i clung to were yours.

Seeing something that shatters your heart into  slivers and needles.
Screaming at the top of your lungs in the car, where no one can hear your pain.
Tears a blinding veil, cascading uninhibited down your cheeks.
Then the numbing truth envelopes every tiny, broken particle of your dying heart with ice.
The body's defense against the piercing pain.
The tears stop, the well is dry.
Your voice leaves you, the screams useless against the ache.
He never loved you, it was all an act.
He moved on without a thought for you, and now he is hers.
And you, well you're alone as you always have been my dear.