When all becomes heavy, and you’ve made yourself so small that your pleas are like the voice of a mouse, remember: The sword must go through the heart, and you are to relish in this sweet ache, forever and ever, and that is a kind of survival. And when all is still heavy, and your pain is not the kind that will set you free, do not shun the hand of your loved one. For there is a kind of heart that can only be held with two hands. Both of them cannot be your own.
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC
When all becomes heavy, and you’ve made yourself so small that your pleas are like the voice of a mouse, remember: The sword must go through the heart, and you are to relish in this sweet ache, forever and ever, and that is a kind of survival. And when all is still heavy, and your pain is not the kind that will set you free, do not shun the hand of your loved one. For there is a kind of heart that can only be held with two hands. Both of them cannot be your own.
Request permission to use this poem