She opened the creaky door to her heart. There are patches on the roof, stitches holding torn pieces together. The garden of roses is begging for a torrential downpour and the shades of scarlet petals are fading to a deep taupe. The drought was the very worst. Her heart is grey but it still beats; the sight of it is undesirable, uninviting even; but for some reason, it yearns to embrace and welcome – as if the damage wasn’t enough to become cold and isolated. At first glance, anyone who comes around sees her heart and shy’s away. Who would want to make a damaged heart their home? But the one who takes a chance on that broken-hearted abode will open the door to magic. The girl who calls the heart her home splatters the walls with yellow paint and hangs strings of sunflowers from her ceiling. She dresses herself in gratitude and kindness; she tucks in her forgiveness every night before she rests. She keeps the moonlight next to her as she sleeps- as a nightlight so she is never consumed by full darkness. Her heart is decorated with borrowed rays of sunlight and the patches are laced together with golden thread. There is a cozy kind of comfort that rests in the midst of the heart. She knows her heart is fragmented and a little bruised but it is made from strangers smiles and full of all the love she’s ever given and received. For her, that is enough.
