He Called Me Rose

Have you ever bit an M&M in half and seen the thin white membrane that separates colored portion from the chocolate?  I have.  I realize that's all that's left of my heart.  That is the cleanest and most accurate description I can give.  I thought the ripping and gnashing of teeth on a fresh kill would make me twinge, but as I sit here baking chocolate chip cookies through the last tears I'll ever cry for another human being, I believe the broken M&M, is the best description.  I wrote sonnets to his existence, painted landscapes for his eyes and all he compromised was bitterness and despair.  He called me Rose.  Actually he named me Rose.  It wasn't because of the sweet smell of flowers that emanated from my raven red-flecked hair.  It wasn't for the way I always blushed purple when he spoke my name slowly with lustful eyes.  He called me Rose because, as I withered from his memory,  I cut his hands and heart repeatedly, as he did mine, scarring him forever.