I like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly

Trusted you with my heart. And its twitching but you haven't noticed. I doubt you ever will.

There was once a girl who loved a boy. She thought she was going to marry him, and in her hopes she surrendered everything without every realising that her self was gone, melded irrevocably to this boy whom she was certain she loved. She was a fool to give her heart away and have it broken, stomped on, disregarded. But she mended it, needle and thread to sew and stitch, stones and sticks to strengthen it, and a bucket of tears to keep it moist. The boy was gone, leaving dust in her face. He realised too late that he wasn't strong enough to bear such high hope in him.

Her heart, now whole, was given again to another. But there were the scars where needle had tried to connect the rifts and staple them together. He was almost a man, and she thought again that she was going to marry him, but she was wary despite her want. Running her fingers over her heart, she would feel the edge of a stone, a point of a stick and that sudden poke would trigger memories of the boy she had loved. Somedays were better than others; her heart would have more flesh than stones, red and alive, it pulsed and grew, the young man could lay his mark on it, and they would both bask in their love. But on other days the entire surface seemed to be an armour of granite, and none could penetrate it. She would retreat, they would turn cold, and the grey empty stone would strike like flint, sparks would fly, fires would burn. And then one day the young man was gone.

Her heart did not break. It merely throbbed and she mended it again, faster than the first time, for she knew the tricks of the game. And then came a man, and she gave him her heart. And he left, and she mended, and then she gave again to another, and he left and she mended, and she gave again to another, and he left and she mended, and she gave and he left and she mended and she gave and he left and she mended. And one day she gave, and he left, and she found that her heart no longer bled. Her tears no longer flowed. Her heart had turned into a statue of craft, it had no flesh and it was dried and shrivelled.

This is what relationship after relationship after relationship does to you.