there’s irony there, in the heart. in every beat, there’s a bit of mirth. protected by the chest, obfuscated by layers of blood, bone, and tissue — the heart is a recluse creature, mistaken to be wild and free buried under the soil of the body. yet she is demanded to be of glass — clear with a fragility that doesn’t suit her. “beat for me,” they demand, and she stills. “show yourself to me,” they ask, and she sinks further down. “i won’t hurt you,” they promise, and if she had eyes, they’d be rolled. leave her be, and if you should make the journey to reach her, she might skip a little at having been discovered in good-natured company.