A tug at the cavity in my chest leaves me with an open wound. The muscle torn away, shrapnel of bone slicing through paper into the open air I’m now open to. The string you tied to the beating mass you’ve kindly ripped through my sternum drags helplessly on the ground as you cradle my heart. You’ve gone away now.
You’ve left at 8 am on a Sunday morning with my heart in your hands and a hole in my chest and I have nothing to show but salt water.