ORIGIN: There’s a hunchback at the heart of this Brush. His loyal dog is ready to hunt a white bird. But we are partial to big bad wolves and hand puppets because the heart on our sleeve shouldn’t be allowed to fly away.
I would rather that bird had been up front with me. I’m squeamish about blood. Bending my ribs is out of the question. But I would have found a way to set my heart free. There was no need to go behind my back. Look where my heart ended up. Closer to the sky. Sure. But still trapped.
I’m a hunchback. As you can see, my heart isn’t in the right place. I wish I had excuses I could hide behind, but no dog has run away with my heart. It’s still there. Pumping blood. Without an ounce of loyalty. A soul is supposed to weigh 21 grams. That’s three-fourths of an ounce. But I can’t seem to find my one saving grace.
I’ve heard that the heart is the size of a fist more times than I can count. There is hope buried somewhere in the definition of an uphill battle, but something in me must be broken because I can’t feel it. I am not a fighter. I’ve never wanted to be one. Dogs have their bones. But that is not what I wanted to cut my teeth on. I should have known love. But with a name like heartbeat, maybe it was asking too much.
Hunchbacks ring bells, but there is no such thing in my mouth. I have never spoken from my heart. I grew up surrounded by birdcaged songs. I was taught to keep my mouth shut if I had nothing nice to say, but it wasn’t long before the silence felt suffocating. There’s a reason there are so many stars up there. Lies light up the world. And lucky for us, brains have an instinct for self-preservation.
I might be a hunchback, my body might be shaped like a bell, but I don’t want to be heard. Not at the cost of bruising my heart. I tiptoed out of the crowd as soon as I learned to stand on my own two feet. Pity me if you want. I won’t deny that I am hollow inside, but please do take a look at yourself. Most human interaction is just a string of empty words anyway.
I wish I were a scent hound. I wish I had an unerring nose for my white bird. That’s how I have heard souls described, but I don’t know myself. I don’t know which path I should follow. I’m afraid of one day looking back and regretting the steps I have taken. I don’t want to get lost in my tear tracks, but I don’t know how to accept a stranger.
There’s a heart in my chest idly pumping blood. Don’t get me wrong, if my soul were a mechanical bird, I would have no complaints, but it is not and I need more. Something I can be wholly devoted to, like a good dog, at least while the taste of copper still lingers on my tongue.
When I was a puppy, I buried a white bird in my heart. The definition of beauty that kept me company while I was growing up. Like any good self-centered child, I worked my magic. I was happy, but eventually reality breached my heart and unearthed a bunch of ugly bones, denying me my rightful stardust.
When I was young and influenceable, someone told me to be good. That person caged a bird in my heart and called it a day, thinking they had done their part. That bird was white, but the sky is blue, and it brooked no argument. To this day that bird remains my one and only blueprint. Sadly, that person never raised me to be a one-track dog, and I have enjoyed each and every one of my mistakes.
I know what I’m supposed to say, but I need time to muster my smile and bite down my tears. People ruin everything they touch, but letting go hurts. Upright was never a word meant to describe character. I can already feel my back hunching forward. The dog straining at the leash, ready to tear the last beautiful bird apart. But knowing how the story will unfold doesn’t change the fact that I am just a child and I need to take comfort wherever I can.
Myopic moon, my ribs don’t resemble crescents. I don’t have your missing pieces. Quit pulling already! Look what you have done, my back is all hunched thanks to you. Why don’t you just give up? You weren’t born to be a pack animal. The stars don’t want you and wolves like me only howl out of pity. Is that what you want? Fine! My heart will bleed for you. Just watch it drip from my teeth the next time my pack goes on a hunt.
I like moonlight. It feels like feathers dripping from on high. If I squint my eyes, I can see my reflection. A black wolf plucking the moon. There’s no blood on its muzzle. It’s all under my nails. About to overflow. I can’t tell loneliness and greed apart. There’s a hollow. It’s called hunger and it rules over me. Why would I allow birds out of their cage?
I would never wear my heart on my sleeve. I don’t want to share the fate of wolves. I have seen moonlight, and I would rather not be kept on a leash. This sleeve isn’t a sock puppet, but I learned at the feet of a bird. There was dirt, but everybody called it freedom, and I learned to pretend. Appearances are all that matters in the end.
I don’t know egrets from herons. But that’s the name that speaks to my heart. Their beak reminds me of a letter opener. Regret is the taste on the tip of my tongue. A wolf taught me to pour my heart into every word I wrote. My handwriting had a pulse and I thought one night I would howl at the moon too. But that’s not how my generation communicates.
I’m not afraid of ghosts. The teeth of the wolf, my worst nightmare is turning into a washed-out peacock. Losing my iridescence. No more ups and downs. Only a flat line stretching beyond the horizon.
There is something called fear of the blank page. My heart was never a root-bound plant. I wasn’t in desperate need of room to grow. That’s not why I howled at the moon. You should have left well enough alone. Now this hunchbacked wolf has lost its appetite. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and nothing will measure up ever again.
It’s said that nothing is darker than the entrails of a wolf. My heart has a beat, akin to the twinkle of a star. It’s not that I don’t have a conscience, it’s just that silence runs in the family.
Why would I follow my heart? I am a wolf. I was born to give chase. Hearts just beat in place, and I have no taste for that type of prey.
Have you ever watched a marble bounce off the ground? The moon is still up there, but that sound has yet to fade from my chest cavity. Heartbeats are a finite resource. If not treasured, they should at least be put to good use. But for some reason I can’t shake the feeling that they are slipping through my fingers.
Wolves don’t show their teeth when they howl. A bunch of liars, that’s what they are. My heart isn’t the truest part of myself. How could it be when it has never come into contact with my words? Teeth are the true seat of the soul. I was told not to trust people who smile with their mouth closed. Forget the moon, loneliness begins at home.
Migratory birds have iron in their beaks. Pity like attracts like. I had an ounce of beauty, an ounce of goodness, but it was quick to point the way and take wing. I don’t remember a day my heart wasn’t overflowing with hunting dogs. I don’t think jealousy is the right word. Something called me home. I wanted a hug. But family always leaves the deepest scars.
I haven’t read enough books. I know what a shooting star is, but my door opens outwards. Goodbye has always come easier than hello to me, but a while ago a bird broke off my heart. There were no hard feelings on my part, I already knew that innocence was never meant to last. But my faithful dog gave chase and it still hasn’t come back. Shooting stars barely last a few seconds, but I don’t think my dog’s leash is biodegradable. I don’t need a moon inside my chest, this heartache wasn’t supposed to have my name on it. I was supposed to become an adult, not a stray.
I don’t know whether swans sing beautifully before they die or not. I wish it were true, but it has nothing to do with me. There is no countdown. Growing up isn’t a rocket launch, adults don’t take their first steps on the moon. Most dogs don’t stray far from home, they have no reason to better themselves. And it kills me. With no song in sight.
I don’t know what birds see. I don’t know how they navigate the world. I’ve heard that laughter bubbles up, but I have yet to see it among the clouds. Someone once told me that my canine teeth were too sharp and that’s why all my bubbles burst without a trace, but it didn’t quite ring true. And, anyway, I’m not one to assign blame. Something tells me that my dogs are more attuned to tear streaks. Just look at those droopy ears. They might point the way, but I won’t blame them for the steps I have chosen to take.
Peacocks aren’t magicians. I know that they won’t spread their tail feathers and tell me to pick one. It’s just that I have never liked the ace of hearts. That never-ending loneliness beating inside my chest. People come and go. The lungs are better suited to define relationships. Loyalty is the name of the dog. I know. I just wish it hadn’t come down to this.