In my middle school health
class, they told me that
the human heart is roughly the size of a fist.
I don't remember what the teacher said next, because I
was too busy
curling my fingers into my palm.
Surely, whatever I was feeling had to have been made by
something larger than my frail hands;
something more powerful
than my thirteen-year-old fist.
I closed my eyes
and punched the desk as hard as I could,
the skin on my knuckles tore open,
blood surfacing, shooting
pain up my arm,
and I walked with teary eyes
to the principles office.
I could only say that I was testing my heart.
These days, I still ball my hand into a fist and just
stare at it for a bit.
I do this every day,
and sometimes I'll punch something,
like my desk, or a wall,
or the drawer that holds all the letters she wrote me.
My fist has gotten a little larger since then,
but it still breaks and bleeds just the same.
- ao-oa
erinstaley · 1 decade ago
0
reply
:)