I carry your heart, I carry it. I carry your heart and I want to burn it up. I want to scratch at it, make it bleed, rip it to shreds with my finger nails. I want to reduce it to mincemeat, and, violence once done, carefully burn each shard, set it under a magnifying glass in that hot, July sun and watch it smolder first, then burn, then fire, then explode. Each piece thus disposed, I would find the dust, find the embers and sweep them up. I would gather, each piece like a lost wheat berry, thrown from the thrasher. I would bag them, bag these embers of your heart and I would further diminish them. I would smash them in the collider, until they too were reduced to their component parts, until we found at last the strings and vibrating particles that made up your DNA and we would destroy those too, so you would never return to the universe, never repeat, never plague the world as a tree, a frog, as moss, as stardust. You would be gone, utterly gone, and so erased, I would be free.
Your pulsing, beating heart, hiding in places in my body I can’t always get to. I hate your heart. I hate it, I hate it. I rage against the thumping in my chest that isn’t mine. The extra breath that tightens my rib cage, compressing my own until it becomes smaller and smaller. Get out of my body. Get out of this scared space, this carriage, this housing that moves me safely through the world, boldly through the world. My body belongs to me, it is me. You stormed the gate, burst in, blew it up, and I have spent five years piecing together what I could find and fashioning, through hellfire and sweat and tears, new pieces to replace what was lost. This is not your home. You gave up your earthly dwelling, your temple, your house. You shut the door, choice or no choice, help or no help. But this home is mine, dearly earned, beautiful and strong and fierce.