They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine wasn’t.

My heart was fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood. Having each finger broken year after year left it permanently clenched… or so I thought. I gave up at chipping away the blood because I stopped seeing the use in trying to outrun the treadmill of life beneath me. You see, sometimes moving forward is standing still. But while I was distracted, a stranger placed a damp, warm washcloth around me, erasing the dried-up crust of my old wounds and making my scars even more discernible. Blanketed in security, I felt the bone beginning to loosen back into overlapping muscle fibers, easing a grip I previously believed was stuck. Right before I completely relaxed, a gust of cold air enveloped me as the blanket was ripped away, chilling an open hand back to bone. People like to tell me that I’m strong. Maybe my strength comes from deeper within. Maybe my strength isn’t tangible. I guess I was more risk-ready than I thought, and it might be nice to have someone fit their fingers through my heart spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep attempting to force my knuckles to bend while re-covering my scars with the specks of dry blood I left scattered on the floor.