The walls of my heart are made of bits of broken pottery that have been painstakingly glued back together as best as I could, but the edges are chipped and rough-edged, and there are pieces missing. With each heartbeat you can hear the shards rubbing up against each other with a painful grinding sound. In one corner of the room is a pile of old dirty blankets that I wrap myself up in and try desperately to keep warm. Horrible names are scrawled across the walls in permanent marker, screaming out at me so impossibly loud that I cannot ignore them. On the other side of the room is a rusty bedspring mattress that I am terrified to go near. A monster lives under the bed. There are no windows in the room of my heart, but the cracks in the walls let in just enough light to cast shadows that haunt me and stalk me in the night. This is where I live. The me that looks out from behind dull eyes is but an automaton, performing the daily actions that are necessary for my physical existence, repetitive actions learned by route. The real me is curled up in filthy blankets in a room where I can never ever get warm.
From a prompt from Jennie Saia, though I think she was looking for happier answers. Sorry, Jennie — not feeling the happy today.