My heart’s been pounding at the walls of my rib cage and it’s starting to bruise. Twenty seven years and eight months of this. Keep counting. Sometimes I inhale to inflate those air pillows in my chest, as if it’s going to pad my ribs and keep my heart from bursting out. Taking on the weight of things it can’t handle; it’s a power lifter. But the mind has a battle of its own. There’s the brain: all pink, heavy and tangled with everything I’ve ever thought, felt, dreamt, tasted, smelled, touched, imagined, hoped, wondered, questioned, doubted, feared. It’s inside this smooth round shell that’s deceiving ’cause it’s actually tougher than anything. It’s the control centre, dictating the rest of me, because it claims to know. What purpose is a strong heart, if the weight of a mind prevails? Believing they lead but one following the other, like two friends without a will of their own. Never again will I expend these soldiers on souls who bring empty promises and good intentions that cannot follow through.
Suggested by: R. Dos Santos