Open the box.
Pull out my heart.
It’s been tucked away so long I hardly recognize it. Look at the wrapping. I’ve insulated it with hugs, smiles and giggles. Shared jokes and memories.
I’ve wrapped it in ideals. Look at all the layers you have to sort through before you find it … frail and small … anemic.
Despite my careful packing, it still broke.
Open the box.
Look at the mess.
Like a broken jar of tomato soup that “bled” on everything, leaving diabolical slivers hidden in the tissue, silently waiting for another victim.
Open the box.
Come closer.
Can you hear me screaming? Or am I crying? Am I whimpering? Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.
Open the box.
Put in your hand.
What do you feel? Is it prickly? Is it warm and soft? Is it cold and hard? Can you find it at all?
Close the box.
You can’t touch me. You don’t know me.
Close the box.
Go away.
