not actually human

A love letter to my own beating heart:

I think about death a lot these days. I lost one, then two, then three, then four, then five people I loved in a matter of 10 months. I put my hands on the chest of person as he took labored fearful breaths. His body and his will fighting to see who won. He slipped into stillness. Inched toward coldness. Leaked into stiffness. His animation disappeared and his body was done. My heart. A tender and complicated muscle. An idea where my love lives, my empathy, my kindness, my devotion, my will. It’s as big and as small as it’s ever been. The muscle beats every day to keep my tenderness here.

When it beats fast I hate it. I hate feeling it work it’s magic and it’s job. It makes me feel sick. It forces me to acknowledge that I am a body. I am bones and meat and blood and parts. Someday I will die, and I will most likely really not like it. It seems really really hard. I want to care for it, both muscle and sensitivity but often times I go for neglect because facing the beat is overwhelming at best.