#bonesdont write

Heartbeat

It’s a simple surgery, they say. 

Mechanically uncomplicated. Unlikely to have side effects. 

Physical side effects, that is. 

And yet. 

And yet. 

It seems the whole world is unduly concerned with the state of my chest. 

A simple surgery, and yet all they can talk about is

Consequences, consequences, consequences.

But have you thought about—

Yes.

But have you considered—

I have.

But you won’t be able to—

I don’t want to.

But no one will want to—

Not you, at least. 

Afterwards, I have not changed. 

I am me. There have been no alterations to my personality, 

or anything besides my physique.

And yet I can hear the meaning behind their stares. 

What did they take?

As if it were more than atrophying tissue I would never use. 

As if I had plunged my hand into my own chest and tore out my heart, 

leaving a gaping hole for all to see. 

I can see the hole in you, they think, I can see what you’re missing.

But there is no hole. 

There is nothing missing.

Now, I hold my life in my hands.