Duotone Hearts

I wasn’t born with two hearts. My mother gave me one; cracked like marble, dark as the night. I lived with it most of my life, falling apart, and losing itself to erosion. It’s love ate me whole, anger flooding my veins, hate consumed my very being.

I was going to be, in her eyes, the perfect little girl. A doll with porcelain skin and painted eyes. She stared back at me in every mirror, every window and puddle. She hated me so much. I don’t see her any more. When i was 13, that image left me. With tears in it's eyes, it buried itself in the lake. I wonder if it was painful for that little girl.

I grew another heart: one that was soft and pearlescent. It shined like the moon and stars. I have it with me, on my sleeve. Sometimes my two hearts fight: they rub together, wrestling for answers. The friction keeps me warm. The friction hurts me too, but i feel alive. In the sparks between them, i see a young man. His limbs are scarred. He is crying too, and his knuckles are cut and bruised. He never looks in the mirror. I wonder if he felt her pain.