My heart is a strange country.
One minute she speaks one language and the next, another. She’s like a flesh version of Switzerland.
She’s also like an Independent Republic that the ex-dictators filled with landmines you should watch out for. I’ve been trying to dismantle them but I can’t remember exactly where they’ve been hidden.
I used to carry a map in my pocket and only hand it to certain people, under strict surveillance. But after several wars and countless battles, I may have accidentally swallowed it.
Indigestible, like any map, it must have settled in my stomach, like a blanket to hunger.
I wish I could throw it up now, piece it back together and remove those bombs, so you can walk in freely and maybe find some flowers, as few as there are left at this time of the year. Or maybe just stay inside for a while, maybe speak of fire, naked words… you know, things people do when they’re cold.
And even if I managed to get another map, it’d still be a dangerous mission. We’d probably blow up into a million little pieces at the smallest attempt for mine removal.
Then there’d be no more you and no more me, and the worst thing is that the world would go on and on, interminably, like a gold chain.
But say I managed to memorize the map and say I remembered.
We’d probably blow up into a million little pieces anyway, but this time there’d be more of you and more of me, and the best thing is that the world would pause and take singing lessons every morning, like any other bird.
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