I look at my heart placed so carefully upon the porcelain plate. Same place as always with only one new addition. Utensils stick out, angles odd and sharp. Piercing through muscle and leaving vessels broken. Blood seeps out— slowly forever. Some are old. A fork from my childhood and a steak knife from my freshman year.  Many scatter the sack of flesh that is left of my heart. The newest knife is the largest. It digs the deepest and brings the most pain. Yet I stand in my dining room with a fresh table setting, placing each utensil carefully and kindly. Ready for the next person who sits down at my plate, hopeful that they will be the one who treats it right.