My heart is made of paper, with every risky joke or with every insult you can hear it crumple and threaten to tear under my shaky grip. I shouldn’t be responsible for something as delicate and as essential as my own heart, I fall too easily and too often I don’t want it to be crushed in the fall. Dropping fragile things is part of my daily routine; the circumstances might be different if it was concerning my own heart.
So perhaps I should give it to you? Would you keep it safer for me? Hold it wherever you walked, tucked under your arm like a bag, but it would mean more to you than just a bag. You would caress it when you walk, and smooth it out between your loving fingers. You would write in your elegant font in deep black ink, your name, across the smooth white paper that is my heart.
But every time I push you away, reject a compliment or refuse a kiss I can feel your loving fingers twist and rip at the corners of my paper. Every time I ignore you, or say something I’ll soon regret I know you’re balling my heart up in your hands and aiming it at a bin.
Paper cannot be corrected, if you crush it, no matter how hard you try it will never be as perfect as it was. You could pretend it was perfect and continue to use it anyway but deep down there are still cracks. They are only noticeable if you witnessed the demolition.
I never realised how easy it is to destroy paper, until I pushed you far enough. I pushed you enough for you to run my heart through the shredder.