Patchwork Heart

I think our hearts are really not formed of muscle at all. We have been lied to our whole lives because no one wants to admit how the beating mess in our chest actually works. But if you slipped under my skin and crawled through my ribcage you would find something that looks more like a quilt than an organ. My heart is really made up of hundreds of scraps and pieces, sewn together with dreams. In some places it leaks tears where the stiches are torn, but that is natural; every heart has its more than fair share of scrapes and bruises. You may think that your life-pumping mess is simply your own, but the truth is that it is hardly yours. By almost twenty years of living, you almost certainly have only a scrap left. “Where did my heart go?” you may be wondering, “I was sure it was here the last time I looked.” Did you not feel the tearing as you brushed up against her heart? It rips every time you come in contact with a person you let close enough to touch your heart. My heart is not my own, but it is composed of the fabric of all my loved ones’ hearts. Every friend, family member, significant other, person you felt for on TV, crush, acquaintance. Every . . . Single . . . Love. That is why love hurts so much; it steals your heart and leaves it with those you have loved. A piece of you goes with them. But is it not worth Loving anyways? A quilt of many beautiful fabrics is much more beautiful that a blanket of a single cloth.