A Girl Grows

rather

rather

today,
a little boy
in preschool
asked me if i would rather
have a heart
or a brain
to live with.

i told him
you couldn't live without
either.

"just choose," he prodded,
and i sat on the chair
adjacent to his
and thought.

"without a brain,
you cannot think,"
he reminded me,
"but without a heart,
you cannot feel."

he looked at me.
"i would never
want to live without
a heart."

and it was then
that i remembered
how much pain
a heart could cause in you;
how fickle it could be,
how misleading,
how foolish,
how gullible.

setting the crayon down,
i wished with every inch of my bones
that i could have said,
"little boy,
when you grow older
and you grow into your most
comfortable skin,
there will be someone
who comes to you
shining like the sun
and as fervent as a flower,
and you will love them;
it is inevitable,
and once you do,
they'll rip your careful skin
and wrench your beating heart
out of its home
and spit bitter seeds of truth
and lies
and hate
into your lungs instead,
and you'll never want to feel again.
you'd never want to hurt
or envy
or pity
or rejoice
or live
again.
the world will darken around you,
and afterwards,
you will be wary of everyone,
you will be afraid;
and nothing will ever thaw
the fear
and pain
that poison had planted
inside of you.
why would you need a heart
when the blessed relief,
the bliss
of feeling nothing,
no pain,
no burden
is given to you
when you open your chest
and take the broken,
stupid,
foolish
thing
out of your grieving
body?"

but i gave him
a practiced smile,
handed him a yellow crayon,
and replied,
"you're right,
henry,
without a heart,
you wouldn't feel,
and we wouldn't want that,
would we?"

—lana