I used to have a heart, you know. A real one, that could smile.
One fateful day, I timidly held a piece out to someone.
"Love it." I begged. "Love it like your own."
And I gave it away.
So it began, the giving away of my heart. Piece by piece, little by little, until finally, I was throwing large pieces away without care.
Then it began.
People began to give my heart back. Their reasons were weak: they didn't have time to take care of my heart, they didn't want another heart, or they just didn't think it was good enough.
Not good enough.
I threw my heart to the ground. If they didn't want it, why should I?
I was much more productive, much more content even. My life was so much better without the stupid inconvenience of feeling.
But then I felt something, or more correctly, I felt nothing. Just a black pool of empty nothingness.
I went back for my heart, but it wasn't the same. It was scattered, slimy, sloppy, and squashed. It bled black blood, cold dark liquid, pure despair.
I picked up the dead heart, and held it to my chest. I thought about putting it back, but what would this dark heart feel?
No. I wouldn't do it.
I took my it home and placed it in a box. I hid the the box where I would never find it . I promised myself I would never give part of myself away to anybody ever again. After all, who would want a broken heart?
