my heart is a fragile thing
My heart is a fragile thing. I won’t tell you how big or little it is, because I am aware that there is a line of people waiting to dispute me on that. It’s not the mushy lump of muscle everyone tells me it is. It is not soft like dough, easily malleable. Not like stone either, cold and unbreakable, frozen in time. Rather, it feels like glass. Not smooth, new and shiny, mind you. Not so clear either that you can see yourself reflected in it. But glass shattered, long ago, broken into a million pieces. Taped back together to somewhat resemble its original form. But it can’t be fixed. There are shards everywhere. Be careful with it. How many times I have cut and bled myself trying to put it back together, the tape forever tinged pink from the very ichor that runs in my veins. Please do not break it again. I have tried too fix it and this is the best I can do. Long ago, I could put it back and you would never have been able to tell. Now my work is sloppy. There are shards missing, that lie on the floor, ready to cut my feet open. One day, I will stop. Who will the shards harm then? Will it be just me? Or will I take someone down with me as I destroy myself?
