Open Heart Surgery

My heart hangs in the window for all to see. Like the one I wear on my sleeve, and the one I give away too easily. A heart should be a cherished thing, to be handled with care, not battered and bruised. But like I don’t know how to care for myself, I don’t know how to care for my heart. It doesn’t come with instructions, or maybe it did, and they faded into oblivion the first time I put it through the wash, in a bid to make it clean, and fresh, and new.

But your heart can never be clean, and fresh, and new. It will always carry the marks and scars of loves, or lovers, lost. Unless you have a heart transplant. But would your new heart revel with the love from its donor? Or ache with all its former heartbreak?

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