the heart is a smooth muscle, incapable of being moved by conscious thought
Her bones move under her skin. They crawl like thread in a running stitch and she hears an angry pop, and she stands, the projector running a feature about Rimbaud, and she clutches between the valley of her s to make sure it isn't her rib cage falling in because her heart is not where it is anymore. She was less. And now she is lesser.

Possibly bending her spine, concave it to the side to shield the rest of her-- She wakes up enough to read the last love letter he wrote to her

 

 

 

"I will get my heart back," she whispers across the table. The edge of her foot hooked over the arm rest of the chair designed to hold two people but then again only particles of time moved between the spaces. Her nails are painted red. The dark boy that she was not supposed to love sits an arm's length. He is not smiling.

"Jongin," she says more clearly. "Do you remember when we went to the doctor and I told her I broke my arm when I was three and there's this funny story behind it and she gave me this look and asked 'left or right?' and it pains me that doctors don't care about history. We have a history. And the only person I know who cares about it is me."


"Soojung, your bra strap is covering the mole behind your back."

"Oh, I really really want to wear your eyes."



 

 

 

 

 

 

She plays a game with he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not. Matchsticks instead of flower petals, making sure they surface scratches the head so it sparks, alive, colors in blue and red and the hot hot hot flame that mirrors the color of her hair.

The boy holds both their hearts in his hands.