My heart is full, even if it feels empty

I have named my heart stubborn, for all the times it disobeyed me.

Suddenly, I was five again, with my mother running after me, telling me to stop or else I’ll get hurt. I still have that scar on my knee, shaped like a knife wound or half of a ‘V’.

‘Stubborn’ is a hoarder, just like me. My hands kept everything it could, even the ones I didn’t need to keep. My heart kept everything — everything but the things I wanted to keep. Like your easy laughter, the warmth in your eyes, or the comfort in your hands.

Instead, my heart is full of longing and regret. Of memories, and nightmares. Dreams of a love gone wrong, dreams of a love that did not belong. My heart has kept all those fires, all those deaths and all those ashes. My heart is full, as it always is, even if it feels empty.

I had felt it beat, once or twice but every time it did, the things it kept would rattle and come piling out and most people my heart had wanted to keep, did not stay long enough to help me put them back in.

Once I thought my heart would continue to beat until you left and I died all over again. It was hard to restart it from then but even if the spaces in my heart are as big as the space around me as my walls are built up, it was still enough.

For there is no grave that could hold my heart, there is no man or woman that can tear it apart. I would love again, and collect more pieces until my heart would burst from all the love left behind.

Because what is the point of being rational, when the thing that keeps me alive, is not?

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