such bloody guilty palms

You didn't break my heart because it was already broken, dear. It was made of glass, you see, and someone accidentally stepped on it. It sits in my chest, shattered and broken, trying desperately to reflect my soul as a whole but only succeeding in shedding little fragments of it at any given time. What you did was take your hand and shove that broken glass deeper into my body, crunched them against muscles and bones, and now I'm left to pick the pieces out, one by one, like a puzzle laid out on a table waiting to be put back together again. The problem, though, is that you pushed so hard and some of the fragments stuck to your palm--such bloody guilty palms, that make you look like some messiah trying vainly to rescue me. The puzzle is incomplete: now those fragments of me are stuck in your skin-in your soul, in your mind, in your body. In your heart. And that's where they're going to stay until you pull them out, one by one, wincing as each one falls, and you pluck me out of your life.