...this will hurt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 24, 2018

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Submitted: August 24, 2018



I know at least 5 synonyms for the word "hope."

One of which is "promise," another, "faith." 

Even with all these words I still have trouble sometimes seeing the difference in mouth to mouth and drowning. I have learned when it comes to dying there's not much contrast between an ocean or a teaspoon of water in the lungs. The syntax between a broken heart or a "Cardiac Event" depends on the profession. 


A "Promise" is as out of place in a vein pouring blood into the right atria as potential is in pumping blood out of the left ventricle in exactly the same amount, yet we seek them for protection.


A "Promise" cannot produce a pulse, especially when both are already broken. 

I know this because I have tried. 


Science says the average adult heart is the size of a fist.  There are four chambers, divided into two sides by a muscle called the septum.  A protective membrane surrounds the tissue, a double walled sac that keeps the heart lubricated and correctly placed in the chest.  


"Hope" will never be tangible enough to physically protect any heart, even if it's only just big enough to beat.  I know this because I have tried.


Today, medical professionals no longer use artificial breathing during CPR. Experts believe this will encourage aid from those skittish about oral contact with strangers.  The best way to serve a dying heart is forceful compression in rapid succession until professionals arrive.  Ribs are often broken. 


Writers would have you believe hearts beat with the potential of maybe memories, could-be futures, almost-impossibilities; that they are protected in a pericardium of pinky promises and sealed in hotel hallways.  


"Faith" cannot bleed ink from printed pages anymore than it can apply romanticism to evade a consequence. I know this because I have tried. 


There are, however, moments Science cannot totally explain: 


-The taste of infinity in the secret places of his skin, and all these words, these feelings that twist and tangle and root themselves through chambers of the heart while he becomes the only air I need, and this love, this "Hope," this desire is as palpable as my pulse syncing itself to his. 


Regret cannot render resuscitation. I know this because he has tried. 


-Finding "Faith" in the embers of fires he started just to watch things burn, using it to put together "Promise"s, tasting apologies from the sweat of his skin as he moves, hands twisted in hair, not understanding what it means to burn for someone until melting beneath them. 


An expectation cannot extinguish a blaze.  I know this because he has tried. 


-Breathing life, creating love, making war in the name of hips versus thighs, teeth against clavicles and skin beneath fingernails while bombs exploded around us. The wetness of leftover lust, painted by shadows snaking through blinds always in the name of any moment designed to excise our emptiness.  


Scientifically, apologies cannot remove a blood stain. I know this because he has tried.

© Copyright 2018 jane-jones. All rights reserved.

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