And there I was again, alone, holding onto my own heart. This piece of meat, cold and wet. Was I holding it out? Was I keeping it close to my chest? I don't know. I don't know a lot of things.
I remember a few things. How warm the tree bark was. How the damp grass tickled my thighs. I can't remember how the wind was. I didn't want to remember how the sun was, it always got in my eyes and made me squint. I wish I remembered how the sun was.
But now it's all just a dark void of grey. I see imitations of things I know. But they're too sterile. But they smell of ethanol. But they're too flat on a plain surface. But they're too perfect.
I like imperfection. I like sincerity. I like roughness that comes from caring hands puttings things to use. I like seeing the memories of things that remember the kind people that have used them.
All around me is not sincere; its not designed with imperfection. It's not rough because of caring hands made use of it. It doesn't remember people that have used it — because they weren't kind.
Colors that are there repeat in the same pattern. Be it flipped, mirrored, turned upside down, it's the same - its all the same! Tongues cut and chains freezing everything in place....
I can't take it anymore. I build walls. I made mirrors. I made iron bars that held everything together. I placed distractions after distractions. The walls fell, the mirrors cracked, the iron bent; they always do.
So I stay with my heart out again, hand pruned from the pouring red. I watch it beat slowly. I watch the blood pour from the arteries and the veins like tears. It hurt in my chest. So I took it out. Of course I took it out. It feels soft in the grip of my fingers. It has dark spots on its surface, like a fruit that is too gripe.
It's full of patchwork and bits that don't quite fit. Ship of theseus made out of gore and emotion. Parts I've taken from others, parts I've found and decided to make my own. It's only my heart in the sense that it beats in my chest. In the sense that I've made it mine. Nothing blends together seamlessly. Nothing but the sinew that connects it all together is mine. Everything I have is taken. Some shared willingly, some exchanged in fair trade, but all is still taken.
And I wait for the bleeding to stop, and for the ache to subside. This too shall pass. I will rebuild the walls. I will mend the mirrors. I will reinforce the iron. And I know I will feel better again.
But its a cycle. It always repeats. Sometimes its longer, parts of it stretched to the unreasonable. Sometimes its shorter, all compressed tightly. Still, it never breaks. I am tired.
I want this heart to be mine and mine alone. I want it to be made by my hands using what I've learned, not taking what's around me. I want my chest to stop hurting so badly. I want to not stain myself with my own blood as I wait for somebody to take my heart and hold it gently.
Yet I never try to give my heart to anyone. It's a heavy burden. And I don't reach out from within my walls, from inside my mirrors, from between my bars. Why should I? I would do nothing but push this heavy, unfinished, mess of a heart onto somebody who would reach out. I know I must work on it myself, but with each edge I try to smooth only turning out rougher and darker I fear that none will want it — none but those whom will stab it, or squeeze it too hard, or throw it away. I do not work on it, so that some resemblance of craftsmanship remains from whatever I've taken.
So I remain still, and hold it. So I watch it, plusating and breathing. It's a cycle. It doesn't break. I am tired.
