My heart is painted over with the lacquered armor of more battles than I can now count, more love than I was ever entitled to receive, and more sadness than is polite to discuss. My painted heart is both broken and solid, heavy with reality.
It’s a trinket, I’m realizing now. A novelty to everyone who’s seen it. A sentimental treasure only to me. That’s human nature, isn’t it? We each have to find the glue to put the pieces back together again, chips and holes and new paint all part of the “charm” until you can either cherish it or can’t stand to look at it. But certainly you can’t expect anyone else to love it in the way you do.
My painted heart is in pieces. I don’t know how I will look at it ever again.