She began to pick at her heart at age fourteen. When she understood that her parents' love was a transaction that bled from their fear. The conundrum of affection didn’t exist in their pride, nor their push for more, but in the way they held her. Within the hollow echo of their devotion, of words coated in affirmations and snide remarks. They hoped she would do better; she apologized for existing.
She dug her nails into the scabbed over gaping hole in her chest and picked. Pulled at the muscles and tendons. Cracked the splintered bones of her ribs that held the beating organ captive. She asked if they loved her, they smiled with assurance as her fingers were stained a blackened red.
At age sixteen she breathed a soft plea for help. When she concluded that her sister’s love was born out of rage. The mothering nature that once welcomed her turned cruel; became a spit of venom perfumed with smiles and backhanded comments. She drowned in the miserly waves of a disguised warmth. Gasped for air amidst the storm that brewed overhead, because asking for love was harder than ripping it from her spleen.
At eighteen she laid pieces of her heart on the dinner table. A final possibility of something to be said, of emotions they refused to acknowledge and doubts they continued to feed. They commented on how beautiful the color of her blood was. She became their blessed sacrament, the Eucharist they stood in line for. Her ichor was their wine, and body their food, and they ate over a shared prayer. Thorns tightened around her throat, splitting her open until her pale skin overflowed with the essence of what they created.
Her mother offered her food punctured with the tang of her blood, her father made jokes about work, and she dug her crimson nails in deeper. Slicing away at what remained. The wisps of her soul clung to the walls of her body, begging for peace. Smeared in the color of her love, she left a trail in her wake. A path not followed.
At age twenty-four, her mother handed her a towel embroidered with delicate stitches and lines that formed a shape. Warmth dripped from her palm as she held it close, the weight of a tender rhythm she recognized heavy in her hold.
She smiled, the salty brine of her past flowed down her cheeks. Memories of years gone by. Nights in solitude. The chasm in her chest called out for help, pleading for reverence of any kind.
At age twenty-four she opened the gift, tasted the copper scent of her mother’s heart, and placed it gently in her chest.