When I look around, I see too many pieces of my broken heart,

Far too many, what beats inside is perhaps just a muscular pump.

When it broke the first time, I was sixteen, a distant faded story.

He just looked at me one day and said “this is so very wrong”

And I moved on, thinking childish crush it was.

Since then it has been several, every corner filled with scandalous bloody pieces.

Some left in the river bank on a full moon night, some on a chilly night while we took a walk,

Some came as a surprise and blew me off, and some as a pleasant relief from a dragging pain.  

I am so numb with this pain, so deeply desensitized that I wonder if there is anything left

Do I still have my juvenile enthusiasm to move on? Or should I just wait till the machinery finally fails.