My heart is not of gold, silver, or rust. My heart is of shattered glass.
My heart is held together by strings, bandages, band-aids, and prayer.
I can feel it shift as I move. It's held together so loosely, that I walk around nails blindfolded, and hope it will not break any more than it has, or, God forbid, the string goes loose.
My bones ache. I feel my ribs cry as they beg for release, but I cannot provide. I can only keep going.
My eyes are always in pain. The sunlight soothes my back, but stabs my visual senses with a rusty nail, sharp, painful, eternal. It is stuck. I am stuck.
