Hearts are strange things.
Sometimes they are just so heavy that you have to let go,
but when you do they fly light like a butterfly.
Sometimes they burn so hot that you can’t breathe
for fear that if you open your mouth, you will consume the world.
And sometimes hearts are cold,
like ice–if ice could eat warmth like a ravenous piranha.
The only thing you can do then is wait, in silence, praying for tomorrow.
Heart are strange things.
Sometimes you just have to rip them out to watch them bleed,
just to remember that you are still alive.
That you still matter.
But sometimes you meet someone you can trust.
You give them your heart and they give you theirs and you can breathe again.
Life seems to beat just a little faster,
hearts are strange things.
Sometimes, you have to give them away to really understand.