She does not recall how it happened
Because, at the end of the day, she really doesn't want to remember.
'It' just is.
'It' is all it can be called now.
Not a living and breathing organ, not the precious part of you
That can stop.
That can freeze.
That can break.
'It' is nothing. Just blood and tissue.
Somehow, through all her books,
She never found those tiny hidden words about 'it'.
The fine print
That tells you the warnings and hazards
Of using 'it' too much
Or too little.
How learning not to love can kill 'it'.
How becoming cold and rational will
Lock 'it' away in a frozen wasteland.
Lock 'it' from human touch, from whispered words, from hot breath on your skin.
She never saw the text about the heart.
And decided she didn't need to see it at all.
Ignore enamored gazes and subtle hands on her shoulders.
Dismiss rumors of crushes and offers to dance.
'It' felt nothing.
'It' pumped blood. 'It' kept her alive.
And 'it' died a long, long time ago.
'It' died because she wanted it to.
It passed on, like her first heartthrob.
Like the fleeting glance to one of her best friends.
Like the moment of that tiny kiss on her cheek.
She does not know why others love the heart
And love and the flutter in the stomach at seeing someone.
She no longer understands.
Maybe she did onceā¦.
But she doesn't really think so.
