As it turns out, breaking a heart was much messier than I expected it to be.
When he broke mine it was a mess of emotions; misery, fury, and grief. They swam through my veins, growing stronger with every pulse until they reached my heart, dug their claws in, and tore it to pieces.
When I broke his, it was a mess of viscera; smashed ribs, the splatter of blood, torn skin and muscle. His heart lay in his open chest, beaten to a pulp by my hammer.
I survived my broken heart. He didn’t.