Her heart felt so heavy, she wished she could pull it out and leave it behind. She’d go through her life without it if she could, for she couldn’t be heartbroken without a heart to break.
“Heart, be still,” she commanded. “No one’s moving an inch. Not me, not you, not my body, not my blood.”
And her heart turned to stone.
With each breath, her body tore itself in two. Half dug itself deeper into sadness, the other tried to flee. She wished she could stop her lungs from breathing. She’d hold her breath forever if it meant her fractured body couldn’t break anymore.
“Lungs, be still,” she commanded. “No one’s moving an inch. Not me, not you, not my body, not the air.”
And her lungs closed up.
Her feet paced across the room. They couldn’t decide between staying or leaving. She wished she could pin them to the floor. She’d stand in place forever if it meant that she wouldn’t have to make that impossible decision.
“Feet, be still,” she commanded. “No one’s moving an inch. Not me, not you, not my body, not my shadow.”
And her feet froze mid-stride.
There she remained, a statue of herself.
She didn’t move an inch. Not her body. Not her blood. Not the air. Not her shadow. Heart, lungs, and feet standing still but never forgetting what they were made to do.
– The heart remembers. From There, I Might Find Peace.