My wild heart.

There’s something perfect about sitting by a fire while the wind rustles leaves and the world quiets down. The freeway rumbles a few miles away and if you wait for it, in the stillness of the blackest time of night, the train’s whistle faints near the ocean.

Laughter echoes in the twilight; smiles glow in the firelight. But as I close my eyes and dream, my thoughts wander to a place under different stars. To safe arms; wanton eyes; a smile reflecting my own.

Embers escape from dying logs and I dream of escaping from here. Someday I’ll float away, too, when the wind carries me back to you.

Smoke dances with the wind while the fire flickers, dying as the night carries on. The dreams in my heart still burn with the strength of a wild fire. I am no longer here where the train whistles by the Pacific. My heart– like embers in the wind– is carried away, and I’m with you. Safe, free, home.



A somber feeling is taking over my heart. I feel myself changing and I am realizing before the change is done. It’s strange, this heavy feeling. It’s a physical burden that my body carries reluctantly. I walk throughout my day wondering who this stranger is that wears my clothes and speaks words with my voice. This isn’t the girl I remember. Is there another soul who now inhabits this body?

I’m left with this frame of me; a shell; a remnant of who I was, left without desire, without passion, without focus. It hasn’t always been like this. Once upon a time there was joy and life. I felt alive, accomplished and adventurous. Today I wake up and I feel defeated.

It’s strange to watch myself become something different, like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, yet still in the middle of making its cocoon. This is probably a stage of growing up — of needing independence but being forced into dependence; feeling trapped in my small life when my dreams are much bigger; carrying the weight of wanting that is shot down with overwhelming ‘no’s’ and ‘not yet’s.’

But whatever it is, I still have statistics homework that I’m behind on because I can’t focus for more than two minutes. I still have three weeks of spring quarter and one more year of college after that. I still have people to see, bills to pay and applications to complete before I graduate. So I get up, swallow this feeling of defeat and wear a smile. Something about it doesn’t feel right. It’s empty.

There are wings waiting on the other side of this cocoon, but I’m still the caterpillar who doesn’t understand.

Sometimes eyes overflow.

Sometimes eyes overflow. They have every good reason to, but hardly do so with good, heartfelt intentions.

I feel it rising and I can’t control it, though I want to. I want to tell the water to go back to its hiding place, to stay submerged in my sinuses and come back on a day when my heart can make sense of it all. Today she is more confused than ever. My eyes couldn’t care less.

Maybe the nerves were severed between my heart and head. Maybe the message isn’t getting through. My eyes haven’t heard that my heart can’t handle this. They don’t know the consequences — the disaster that will ensue — when the levy breaks.

The dam in my heart isn’t strong enough to hold back this flood, though for her sake, it should be. She needs it to protect her. She needs it to stop the flood before everything comes crashing down.

I choke my way through a few inhales, hoping the air will dry my eyes, but as I exhale, I exhale defeat.

The floods roar; my eyes overflow; the dam breaks; chaos fills my weary heart.

Where my heart lies.

I fear that someday my heart may fall out of my chest.

I close my eyes and I see it.

My chest is empty.

My heart is scattered in a million small pieces. It lies limp, losing its erratic beat as oxygen escapes from its exposed cells. I tried so hard to keep it safe under this pale flesh blanket and tucked between ribbed bars and lungs and veins. But I attempted to no avail.

I see myself scrambling on the floor to pick up the pieces, almost missing the flesh that fell beneath my bed. So many pieces strewn across my bedroom floor. So many pieces slipping through my fingers. So many pieces spread across so much distance. So many pieces; who can hold them all?

Tonight I lay in my bed, arms crossed over my chest, palms curled into fists, eyes clenched shut as to keep the darkness out. Beneath my eyelids there is darkness still. I pull in tightly, keeping everything together, holding my heart inside. It seems to be working though I feel an ominous emptiness in my chest.

I open my eyes to the darkness of my room and in the shadows I face fear. Maybe it’s not really there, I think. Maybe it fell out a long time ago. Maybe the pieces are already scattered.

I shake off these silly thoughts and adjust my eyes to the darkness beneath my lashes, pulling in tighter just to make sure my heart is there. I feel its steady beat. Thump. Thump. I breath in and exhale my fears. I roll over and begin to dream.

Still, sometimes I think I’ll wake up and see my heart lying on the floor.

Who is this heart we speak of?

Why do we talk about our hearts as though they are not the thing that beats inside our chest?

My heart, she beats rhythmically, keeping my blood flowing– pump, pump, pumping, steadily, never missing a beat. She knows when to beat faster to keep up with my running feet and when to slow down to the pace of my quieting mind. Her steady thumping inside my chest reminds me that I’m living; I’m breathing; I’m existing. It’s all because of her. She beats inside my chest, rhythmically, steadily, never missing a beat.

But I put her down, talking about her like she’s ill with ventricular fibrillation. Up, down, up, down; emotionless, then full of joy, then stricken with disappointment. I say she’s a whore, throwing herself on anything that catches her eye. I say she is cracked, broken, desperately in need of repair. I say she’s got her head in the clouds. I say she’s distracted, not doing her job, not keeping me safe and full of life. But she is. She is a hard worker. My heart has always been faithful, beating rhythmically, steadily, never missing a beat.

My heart, she remains inside my chest, beating faithfully. She is not a whore. She is not broken. She has never been distracted from her vital task. So, who is this other heart we speak of? Who is this heart that breaks? Who is this heart who risks my safety for her satisfaction? Who is this heart who keeps on missing beats?