I am not heartless, just shy,
socially inept and awkward,
afraid and walled in,
heart thudding out of my chest
a rabbit, a coward,
(more) an introvert envying the extrovert,
so I say nothing
and feel everything.
It's not my heart that is missing,
it is my tongue.
you scraped aside sinews,
pulled together a pattering pulse
in hopes of habitation behind the sternum, you thought
you could love and be made whole.
(more) once you saw them smile and
you could feel your heart beat like
blinking, like waking up with sleep in your eyes
like breathing again, like out-of-hibernation.
you tightened your stomach and
scraped your throat dry
and made a nest out of thoughts and
hoped your heart would swell in it.
but blood is not stagnant enough
to nourish, not when it rushes to the head
(and rings eyes red).
the nest in your chest is starting to rot.(less)
i have built up this ruse, this facade, the cold bitch whose face is a mask and won't let anyone or anything touch her.
"you have no soul," they say. "ice queen," they jeer. some say it in jest, but some are dead serious.
even when my vulnerabilities show(more), they are all forgotten, because everyone wants someone to hate and everyone hates heartless.(less)
As Harold began to read the terms he was agreeing to through this procedure, he felt a strange pressure in his head, like a vein was about to pop. His senses flared a bit: the pages left a translucent red trail as he flipped(more) through them, and he was hit with a strange odor that smelled like a mixure of blood, snot, and saliva. These things happened all the time during "meaningful" experiences since the surgery.
Harold was a pioneer of science and society - the first person to have deep emotional connection surgically removed from his brain. Hee was a symbol of innovation, of technological advancement, and of humanity's evolution.
The Western push for individual achievement had too many emotional casualties - people were tired of being disappointed by themselves and the world. While capitalistic efficiency and profit had created a comfortable, pleasant world, the last obstacle on the frontier to ultimate happiness was our own biological handicap of emotional distress.
Harold was not only a hero because of the practical value of his surgery's success, but also because the resolution of his own life acted as a real-life Deus Ex Machina.
His story was all over the news. The man with the ultimate tragedy, who had lost wealth, riches, and all his family members during the same year. Statistically, someone must end up at the dark end of the crushing loss bell curve, and fate had decided it would be Harold.
But alas, the ever-growing science of medicine was here to save him, and society, from dealing with such messy circumstance. Those pesky emotions which caused so much pain had finally me their match in the Amygdectomy.
He wondered how he was going to feel about this decision later.(less)
The wall clock chimes 7.
He's in the process of getting dressed quietly, doing his best to maintain the silence. The only sound in the room is the shuffling of his shirt and the rhythmic sound of even breathing coming from the woman on the bed.
She stirs, a(more)nd reaches her hand along the cool bedside he shared a few moments before. The lack of warmth wakes her up to see him standing now almost fully dressed.
'Hey, good morning.' She says squinting through a smile as she props herself up on her left elbow. Strawberry blonde hair collecting up off the pillow and spilling over her bare freckled shoulder.
'Hi' he replies without looking her in the face.
'You're leaving so soon? It's only 7'
'I know, I'd love to stay,' he lies the same way he does every Thursday morning, 'but she'll be up soon and I should be there. You know how it is.' He finished the Windsor of his time and adjusts his wedding ring casually.
The fair skinned girl rolls onto her back and sweeps her hands along the bed. 'You're a liar,' she says casually with a smile in. 'You always apologize but it isn't worth shit is it?'
He stops in the doorway of the bedroom and without turning to face her.
'I guess not.'
Neither one of them say anything more. He leaves the apartment, she stays in the bed looking at the wall clock.
I'm on the set of a reality show, and the lights are pressing into me like warm knives. I'm dressed in a crisp suit, the kind of thing my father would never wear, and I'm on a couch next to the host. He grins like he doesn't know how(more) not to. "Yeah, this is good, this is real good," the cameras say. The host looks at the audience while his smile turns to me and asks about my life, how I got here, what I think of God. I don't say anything because I know it's a trick. I only think: how am I enough, if he was full of nothing?