Here I’ve really overworked my physical heart. Not the metaphorical manifestation, but the one that has flesh and clumps, compresses and thumps not like a bird, but like the flaring flanks of a horse. The heat of their own selves steams them. As does my heart. The one in my body, the one charging my limbs and spinning my mind with its pulleys. I have heart palpitations which are harmless at best. I have left too many handprints on it, so that it now feels raw to the touch: the sticky red lollipop left on the rug. Hairs twanged all over. It’s disgusting, yes, you reacted correctly. But it’s my non-metaphorical face that you insult when you recoil. It is one in the same–If you didn’t want to feel its grime on your fingers you should have avoided this–A heavy lump, a warm and living spirit clustered like a dying star. It bleeds constellations out onto the desk. I made a print to hang on my forehead. How fucking stupid could I have been? Now what’s left: a scrap of torn paper nailed to my skull dead-center so everyone passing squints and then quickly looks away.