The thief stole my heart, crystal as it were. Made of shards, liable to shatter, yet such beauty as it beholds made it the object of the thief. None so fair could otherwise steal it, valued as it was. After numerous close calls from picked pockets to B & E of my car, I left it at home. There it was, under a jar, floating in the confined space, refracting light as it slowly rotated and bobbed. Lights low, my heart was protected as I snuck out of the house every day. The heart did not belong to anyone else. I swear it was mine alone. But one day, the thief stole it. Removed from my home, it would not last long, and as it faded away, my life would become gone. Perhaps the thief didn’t know any better, but consequences are all the same. I died a little each day, while I was sure the thief smiled at others, and lived its days as though nothing was wrong. Draining my energies, the absence of my stolen heart acted as a vacuum inside of me. The thief never sold my heart, though. Of that I’m sure. For then I could have found it. Bought it from another at a steep price. Unreasonable purchase would it not if it were not so valued. For it opened up a black hole in me, a chasm that slowly drained away my existence. This unstable state of matter made me more desperate, and less cautious in pursuit of what had been lost to me. With caution caught up by a draft and tossed about by a breeze, I became more susceptible to the loss that made me so vulnerable. I risked more and was rewarded less, allowing the thief the opportunity to pounce once again. Such vulnerable prey I became, dying in the wilderness, stalked by the hunter who cannot and utterly refuses to relent.
And it happens at the right moment, just the right moment, when I am weak and no longer able to fight. I give in. The thief strikes again. Taking my voice, the only thing I had left. Without a voice, without a say in the matters at hand, the thief overpowered me. Then I woke up in a hospital, bruised broken, missing parts, pieces of me I likely didn’t even know that I had. My veins are now empty, because there is no more life or blood to pump through them. Sometimes when things are stolen, you regret. But regrets beget naught. They serve only to sharpen the sting of the memories of loss. Heartless thieves they would be, had they not stolen mine own. And then, when I thought I had already lost everything, the thief stole from me once again. The thief took my parts, dismantled the ‘me’ from me. Fully expended, now a heap of rubble, inconsolable to the nurses who are paid to care for their patients. But no patience means they don’t have to care. They did try to fix me, though, sent in the horse-faced nurse and all of the doctor men. But alas, they couldn’t put me back together again. So they sent me home packaged in a box and kept my bank account in lieu. There I was, a box of pieces that nobody wants. Finally, though, there is nothing more for the thief to steal. There’s just a box of miscellaneous parts that hold no value to anyone but their original owner. But thieves are greedy. They take, then take some more, until others are wont to suffer throughout time. I would give anything to rid this world of such thieves. But I no longer have anything left to give, at least nothing anyone would want. So I decided to sell my soul to a greedy little vendor of favors. He told me I could start over, begin renewed. Liar. Thief. Nothing changes. Especially not time. Not ever. Forward, forward, hurdling unstoppingly, taking with it any chance of ‘what if?’ or ‘once, before’. Those are the last things they stole from me. The thieves may have this world now, but I pray someone will steal it back from them, in time.