I wonder what my heart tastes like.
I’ve poured it out more than I should, yet I still have not a clue what I’ve given away.
I’ve let go of glasses full of speeches that were thought out and then almost thrown away. Pails upon pails of poured-out passion left in random places around my life.
Now my heart is almost empty. I’m afraid I’ve poured it out to anybody willing to listen; all I’ve received in return are fragments of pieces of knowledge without any sentiment. I wish someone cared enough to give back what I’ve given away.
Does the throbbing organ hold its red, blood-soaked hue even when separate from me?
Have the sweetest of my musings tasted sour without my consent?
Has the gallon of blood I left in the past been put to a good cause?
When I look back, I remember daydreams in the summer sun. Does my heart taste like regret to you?
My heart is not often full, but when it is, its strings become like those of a harp.
Have you heard the melody that plays when my eyes find yours? Have you heard the sweet, saccharine song that my heart sings when I see you?
A lullaby dreamily floats through my mind as I drift to sleep, thinking of you. A steady beat, without much flair, is the soundtrack of my day as I sit by you, experiencing comfort in the routine of you.
Sometimes, the unwavering tempo falters; my heart will occasionally skip a beat. The minuscule moments lead to palpitations. The moments when my heart finds what it’s been looking for its whole life.
My inner child is resting in my heart, skipping rope on the playground in my ribcage. Every time her shoes hit the floor, I feel my heart leaping, dancing, and soaring around in my chest.
And as the spotlight shines down on the dancer, it glimmers. It glistens. It gleams. Because I like to believe—well, I truly hope—my heart is made of gold. I try every day to emulate the metallic meaning of the phrase.
But I fail. So I try again the next day, and I fail again. Because, if my heart is even partly golden, I promise you it’s fool’s gold. I try to prove my worth time and time again. But my altruism is only a facade for my individualistic manner.
Maybe one day I’ll look in the mirror, feel my heart beating, and remember that my adoration for everything and anything is an ever-flowing fountain, not a heart-shaped glass that runs out constantly.
When I decompose, flowers will grow from my skin. My veins will break through the layers of skin that I’ve clawed at in loathing and burst into effervescent gardens of verdure. And from my forever-loving heart, will be dicentra. My heart on a vine, displaying all that I’ve loved and all that I am.
