Sometimes it feels like I have a ceramic heart. An empty ceramic heart. Most people don’t. they have normal, beating, soft hearts with walls that are for their protection but can still be penetrated. Walls that can heal after being penetrated. Hearts full of blood, being pumped throughout their bodies, keeping them alive. My heart’s not like that. It’s a hard, cold shell. It was made from overly soft, moldable clay and after surviving intense heat, is the hard, smooth shell before you. It’s hollow. That’s why I always feel the need to fill it with whatever I can find, whether it be a person, a book, a movie, a place. I take whatever thing I can find and stuff as much of it into my heart as I possibly can until it’s pumping through my veins. It gets to the point where I’ve filled my heart so much that it can’t stand the pressure. The internal pressure is pushing so hard on it’s thin but strong walls. I love whatever I’m jamming in there so much that my heart isn’t going to burst, but shatter. The difference between my heart and a normal one is that while a normal one would heal and patch up the whole that was left in it, mine is broken beyond repair. I can glue it back together, but this time it’s less strong than before and it will never be the same or work quite as well again. I break my own heart and can’t help it, for if I didn’t try to fill it it’d be empty and useless. It’d be like I didn’t even have a heart. And a person can’t go through life being heartless.
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