My Heart's Still Beating
“Give me your hand.” I said, reaching for him. Quietly he obliged, slipping his hand into mine. Slowly, I lifted it and placed it on my chest, palm flat.
“Feel that?” I asked. He looked at me, head tilted slightly. “That’s a heartbeat. My heart’s beating.” I smiled softly to myself and let his hand drop.
“That run down, beat up piece of s
is still beating. Despite the bruises, despite the scars, the little sucker’s still beating.” I looked into his grey eyes.
“Depression is a bit like a hurricane. Before it hits, you see this perfect little place. So innocent. So serene. So…happy. And then, woosh. It tears through you, rips you apart piece by piece, and afterwards, your perfect little place is nothing but heaps upon heaps of rubble and destruction.
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