It gnawed through her like aspirin on an ulcer and then burned until a hole appeared in her stomach. Why couldn’t he see it? It never healed.
The day he ripped it out, a trail of broken pillow-blooms led like an opened vein to the bin where he disposed of the body. “It was ugly”, he said. Every spring when she looked at the shady cavity where her beloved Dicentra Spectabilis once grew, caustic rage radiated from her heart.
A carpet of common forget-me-knots grew in its place. He said it was symbolic of his love. True. She’d never forget.