For Repair

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At the age of 19, I needed to relearn how to make my heart work,

because all it knew at that time was to beat for pain,

pumping the boiling blood that your leaving caused into my anemic body.

I felt the torrid fluid flow from whatever was left in my once loved heart

to the rest of my melting ribcage

My tendons got crippled through the weight of your foot steps

My chest fought and tried hard for it not to explode

but it did.

Cataclysmic, devastating.

and the debris was a tiny part of it just enough for me to breathe

but never again to live.

 

I even had it checked a couple of times,

hoping science is smart enough to fix it.

But after a few awkward lying down on a bed with my upper body exposed

and sticking of small metal electrodes to my chest,

I was told that I have a calm gentle placid heart.

Maybe that machine can only draw lines

but it can’t hear feeble longing cries.

 

I looked at myself in the mirror, I see a head, a pair of arms, a pair of legs, a bulging stomach

Nothing clear at the center of these parts.

They said things we do not use often, we assume to be nonexistent.

I was starting to comprehend that if I would not be able to teach it to beat again, its weakened tendons will never be able to recover.

 

True enough, when I was 23, the small debris I almost could no longer feel

It forgot to beat twice in a minute, 2880 in a day, more than a million in a year.

I knew that if I count how many in a lifetime, I’d realize I practically lost much of my life

The doctors said I lacked oxygen in my system,

and then I admitted it,  I lacked love.

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