I wrote you a poem three years ago, which said that my heart was your own to protect. I called it ‘Boxing Gloves’, because you were a boxer and you were strong enough to take care of me. My heart was a fragile gift, and you said you understood that it was a hard job; a difficult and sometimes irritating thing. You gave your word. You promised me that, come what may, you would always love me and take care of me. You carved your name into my heart and it was never to fade away. Since then, no matter what obstacles we encountered, I knew that I could count on your love to carry me through. It was your love that made me into who I am and made me realize who I wanted to be and that I could achieve whatever end I wished for because I had your love. Forgive me if I’m not alright with you coming at me with a piece of sand paper, trying to smooth away your carving because you weren’t man enough to keep your word. I’m sorry that my crying bothers you and that I ask you questions which are not easy for you to answer. I have an obstinate heart, though delicate. It won’t let you chisel away the feelings embedded in its flesh. You don’t get to decide these things, nor do I. You can break a heart, but it doesn’t die. Even in pieces, it throbs in my chest and it waits for you to set aside the sand paper and return with the duct tape. I know you’ll fix this again. You have to.