The Gift of What You Took
You could take my heart the way someone takes a ripe peach from a tree - unannounced, fingers bruising the skin. You could drop it in the dust, grind it beneath your heel until it stopped remembering its own rhythm. You could run it over on some forgotten back road where the only witnesses are weeds and sunburnt sky. You could pierce it, once, twice, until it looked less like something that belonged to a living thing and more like the ragged memory of one. And still, if you placed it back in my palms - trembling, slick with the weight of what you’d done - I would curl my fingers around it, cradle it like something holy. I would say thank you, as if you’d given me a gift instead of returning what you’d taken. I would love you the same. Maybe more.
Posted Aug 11, 2025, 3:07 PM UTC