2am in the morning and my little heart is keeping me up by singing.
I write with my heart.
I sing with my heart.
So I’m listening to it now as it achingly warbles a refrain in the middle of the night.
It’s a funny, daft little thing.
I’ve never pretended to have any control over it.
My mind tries, sometimes, to tell it to be a little more discerning.
To not be so open, to be more careful.
But my heart has a mind of its own and it feels what it feels, without me getting any say about it.
Sometimes it feels as though it’s not a part of me as much as it’s a separate little entity that chose to reside in my chest cavity.
If you were to take it out, you’d see it’s suffered a lot of damage over the years. You’d see the cracks and scars. And that it’s not whole, with so many missing pieces.
Because whenever I give it away, some little bit of of it always remains with the person I gave it to.
“Can’t you keep a little bit for yourself, at least?” I ask.
No, she says.
I never give less than everything.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
Yes. I suppose so.
I used to wonder why God made me, and my heart, so broken. But then I realise that out of the brokenness, my heart always fashions something.
A song, a poem, essays. My words ache and drip with all the feeling my heart pumps into them. Like bread, to be broken and shared with the world.
I guess I’ll just be resigned to my heart wandering off, knowing it’ll come back a little more broken and a little less whole.
Yet no matter how many times it bleeds and breaks, love still remains in all the empty spaces the pieces leaves behind. And one day when my heart has finally given every last bit of itself away, love will still be there in its place.
I don’t pretend to understand it. I don’t think I can ever tell it what to do. But my heart will beat on and still give nothing less than everything.
Because that’s what it was made to do.