I have fissures in my heart.
They are long, narrow openings. Created by cracking, splitting, loss. My heart isn’t broken. That isn’t right. Though the fissures start deep and wide.
The first, in my twenty-year-old heart. Unknown, unexpected. It was perfect, nearly whole, unblemished. It was youthful, strong, pumping lifeblood and love. But then, a zig-zag tore through.
I got a fissure in my heart.
It was the first and it’s never left. It got smaller as my heart grew. It’s not a scar. It’s a fissure. Sometimes, it gets filled temporarily. By life, by things, by change, by loving kindness. It can be filled for a month, or a year. Or an hour. It will never leave me. Don’t tell me it will get better. It’s part of my heart. I don’t want it, yet it’s mine. It’s part of the whole. My heart.
I got a bigger fissure in my heart.
Deeper, wider still. Criss-crossing. Cutting to the core of who I am. Heart changed again, never to return. A new design. A pattern of pain.
I have many fissures in my heart.
You have them too. Hearts marked by loss. A job, a pet, a relationship, a home, an ability. That thing, that person, that time, that security, that human right, that choice. Easy-come, easy-go, they say. And it’s true. The cracks appear, in vivid variety. A unique maze.
I want fissures in my heart.
Scar tissue is unyielding. The gap is closed, but the heart gets hard. More fissures; more pain. I feel mine, but also yours. A sore heart can feel, more than before. It can love, more than before. A fractured heart lets more in, and gives more out. Through the gaps: divine love, a love for life, love for the hurting.
I don’t want fissures in my heart.
But they are mine. Until the last beat.