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jo-writes-too-much · 2 years
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Of Broken Hearts
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Every person's heart is unique. If you break someone's heart, you become the sole individual who has done so. Of course, others might break it later too, but a hearth never quite repairs and while two cracks can be alike, they are never wholly the same. I, admittedly, delight in the poetic cruelty of that. Isn't it so satisfying? To be the person who has both owned and shattered something so delicate and extraordinary. If you claim you don't feel thrilled by that thought, you are lying to yourself. There is nothing comparable to the exhilaration of knowing you have so much power over a person only by owning a tiny part of their being. It is intoxicating - the understanding that in your fist rests something made of such fine matter and just by squeezing a little you can make another person dance for you like a puppet on a string. And if you squeeze too hard suddenly that fragile thing you are holding bursts into bits as sharp as diamonds. All at once your hands are bloodied, as red as that piece of another's being that was entrusted upon you, reminding you of the destruction you have caused. And if you are smart, you will put back the pieces of that broken heart, glue them together with your blood, so that you can keep owning that most precious fragment of someone, and keep squeezing, and twisting, and breaking. A heart, broken so many times by your hand, will find itself always thinking of you since it has been so soaked in your blood and has grown so used to your hand that the thought of another holding it will never seem right. And thus, you become the sole owner of a unique relic that no one has or will ever posses aside from you, at least not as fully. It is brutal, true, but aren't the most beautiful things in the world a product of human malice? That is perhaps the cruelest irony of life.
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