I want your broken heart.
I want the scar tissue and sutures. I want the bleeding and infested wounds, covered in scabs and bandages.
Show me how they hurt you. Then show me how you rose up anyway. Tell me about the first day you realized you were going to make it. And tell me the way you still wince when it’s touched the wrong way.
No, I don’t want your perfect heart. I don’t want you untouched, unharmed, scrubbed clean of the scents of your previous lovers. I want you dirty. I want you wiser. I want you brave enough to love again.
This is how I will know to be careful with your heart. To not take it for granted. To not take it at all, but honor it like the temple that was once burned but now stands as a monument.
You show me your perfectly broken heart, and I’ll show you mine.
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