There are scars on my heart... I know they're there. I hope some undamaged tissue remains, a patch through which love can come in and flow out. I hope.
When the silence and the aloneness press down and around me, crushing me, carving through me like ice, I need to speak aloud sometimes, if only for proof of life.
... if a woman who's wholly alone occasionally talks to a potted plant, is she certifiable? I'm confident that it is perfectly normal to talk to oneself occasionally. It's not as though I'm expecting a reply. I'm fully aware that Polly is a houseplant.