My heart.
It beats outside my chest.
Vulnerable to infection.
Likely to rupture.
A muscle.
An organ.
It is a function.
It is a noun.
I rely so much on the actions it does not do.
I am a whole person.
With many parts.
And exposing myself.
One nick.
One wrong move.
Arterial damage.
It warrants it’s own respect.
If I knew how to use it I wouldn’t expose my tender tissues.
I wouldn’t place so much value on it’s ability to control my life.
I wouldn’t let myself be damaged.
I wouldn’t give away my defenses.
If your heart is made of stone the possibilities are endless.


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