What is the condition of my heart?
As you begin to feel or find an image, write. Describe what you see. Spend some real time with it. If it's an image, describe it. If it's a sense, tell us how it feels. Don't rush. Really show us.
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Oh my. How it hurts.
It is a wound. At the end of a deep staircase. I can take
you there.
Don’t take my hand. It won’t help. I am alone here but you
can take a look around.
We come to a door. It is made of black walnut, his favorite
wood to work with, but it is damp here so despite being such a hard wood, it is
swollen in places and the hinges are sagging. It looks almost too heavy to
open, but I do it every morning. I pull out the keyring and the sound of the
keys hitting each other is enough to make you jump. It’s okay. I do too. It’s
spooky here.
I turn the key and press my shoulder against the wood,
hoping for a splinter, and push us inside. It is shadows and the sound of
dripping water on lonely stone steps. There are no torches but enough light
from your world sneaks in. Your eyes will adjust. Follow me as we descend.
It gets colder and colder as we step lower and lower into
the bellows of my heart. It is a wet cold that makes your joints ache and teeth
hurt. I’m sorry that your coat can’t stave off this bitter cold heart. I know
you’re getting scared. I am too. The closer we get to the bottom, the deeper
the dread begins to feel. I find it strangely comforting. I am coming home to
my most deep self. I’m sure that’s frightening for you.
You can probably hear the rodents scattering. That is a good
thing. They sometimes get bold and will climb right onto your feet. They are
heavy but don’t bite. I know they’re repulsive though. They are my closest
companions these days. I don’t feed or pet them but they still come around.
They smell their own.
And, I apologize for the smell. The decay of love is a
pungent odor. I can’t bring myself to clean these walls, they are wet with our
tears and the sweat of our lovemaking. And the odor that smells like decomp is
just that. His flesh I hold to me like a blanket against this cold.
You can tell we’re getting closer, and it’s best we don’t speak
anymore. It disturbs her. So. I’ll tell you now. When you see her, the large
gaping wound, I wouldn’t touch her, though I doubt you’ll want to. She has a
tendency to hold onto anything living with a death grip that belies her weak
heart. It’s okay to cry too. She doesn’t mind that. But don’t make too much of
a scene of it. She may start too and the noise will be deafening. You can sit
with her if you dare, but please try not to run. She does still have feelings
and she knows she’s a terror to behold. She is awfully lonely but there’s
nothing you can do about that. There is still time to turn around. If you are
sure, we can continue.
…
…
…
Shhhhh. She is sleeping. But see how she oozes. See how she
pulsates. She is horrific and I can’t stop staring. I know you can’t either. I’m
going to just lay my head here. That’s it, tear your gaze away or you may never
be able to. I understand you have to go. You can find your way out. I cannot. I
will be here when she wakes. She needs me here. But you can go.
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