It is late January, and we are watching the rain fall outside. I look over at you and hope you do not notice the stench of my rotting heart.
You have not picked up on it yet, too absorbed in your own matters, your fingers pressed to a small piece of paper resting on your desk, eyes darting back and forth over small strokes of the pencil. Occasionally you will glance at me with concern, as if to check that I am not tired or bored of watching you.
While you work, I sit there and rot, quietly, with a smile on my face. I don’t remember the last time you made my heart pound uncontrollably. For so long, it only beat for you.
Or perhaps in spite of you- it could not stand that it loved you so much and simply decided to self-destruct to save itself.
I can feel it decaying in my chest, a pitiful, small thing, worn down to hardly a quarter of its original size. It is blackened and disgusting. I cannot even stand to look, and I fear that you would not either.
Though, you are oddly apt at looking at the darker parts of me and not shrinking away. When you have stared into the depths of my murky soul, untouched by light for so many years, and chosen to hold it in your hands, how can I hide my rotting heart from you?
The words linger in my lips, push themselves to the tip of my tongue. Yet a tendril of that awful, decomposing thing that cannot be called my heart curls around my vocal cords and chokes me until I cannot speak.
It does not want you to know that it is disgusting.
You will certainly turn away then.
For who would want a perishing heart over a whole one? Who would choose half a girl when a full one stood right in front of them?
People want what can give them the most value and I can offer you nothing but a half-broken heart that has rotted in your name.
So, you will never know, until I die and they cut me open and deliver the thing that has killed me to you, and tell you, she loved you. She is dead because she loved you. Do you understand?