Hearts, they are funny things aren't they? You can't live without them and yet some days I wish I could pull mine right out of my chest. It breaks, it is heavy or sometimes I just want to see it beating.
Is it weird that I want to watch my body work? To see the raw blood and bones? To see my vain pulsate? When my anxiety was at it's worse I would dig my nails into my hairline, I wanted to peel my face off, it was this weird consuming desire. I would grab on, dig my nails into my skin and try to pull. I didn't want it to hurt though and once it did I stopped.
I lie in bed and wonder if I took myself apart would I be able to put it all back together. Would there be an extra part that I missed, clueless where it goes?
I'd love to dissect my life and being. Or have someone else do it. Tell me what I did right and what I did wrong.
I remember in high school dissecting the fetal pig, I picked one of the smartest girls in the class. I knew she would never complain of my desire not to rip apart flesh and cut open a heart. She wanted the grade more then she wanted my help.
If I could now I would stare at that pig. I would slowly pull and prod. Stare at every organ. I'd take it apart and see if I could put it all together again.