pr.weird viny heart

I fell out of love with my own heart. When I first approached her through the mirror, she was shiny and sparkled like she had never seen any essence of impurity. I felt attracted to her and reached, grabbing her hand without realizing mine had long been stained with dirt I couldn’t see till hers too was covered in soil.

When I asked her, she told me in her gentle manner that she was not like the other corrupt hearts I had seen and considered before; no, she said to me that she was very beautiful and that I’d have to take great care of her if she was to stay that way. I agreed to her terms and cradled her in my arms, rainy nights and sun-soaked mornings. I tried to do my best. My embrace became gentler, my skin softer so that she could feel comfortable enough to desire staying for another day. I washed vigorously, too, to stay clean enough. My muscles fell away and were replaced by downy cushions for her, because I wanted her not to leave. I was very much in love with her beauty, the glowing whiteness of her skin, the bright of her blood.

We lived well together. I loved her and she took sweetness in that I cared for her beauty. Neither of us noticed that the dirt on the hands that clasped us together was spreading, quietly. Eventually my cushioned skin grew into lichens. Her white paled into sick’s green. Her face was freckled with bits of dirt that I resented looking at.

The day came in which she had become less of a heart and more akin to a shriveled, viny beast. Her lovely face was covered in rotting leaves and her feet sickened, coated in bits of soil that weren’t to be washed away no matter how desperately I scrubbed. Her eyelashes were twigs, arms branches, hair the dressings of weeping willows. She cried to me of her visage. I cried to her too. My most precious item had been tainted with something I wasn’t able to understand.

In the end, she got tired of herself and I could no longer stand the symbiotic nature of our suffering. I searched for a shrouded spot in the woods and, with the remains of a gentleness that should have long since fallen out of my grasp, placed her, this verdure heart, into a kind-looking nook of ground and was on my way. Looking back, I don’t know if I really fell out of love with her. I think I was just too confused in confrontation with a different form of beauty that I couldn’t care to understand it.