When A Heart Comes To Save You
When a heart comes to save you, splay yourself as if dead. Relax your body like the edges of a wound. Look into its eyes. See what saving looks like.
Look until you are sure you will never forget.
Then look some more.
When the heart lowers its rope, don’t be nervous. It’s not a noose. The noose is already around your neck, long familiar, like a middle-school tattoo. This is a saving rope. It’s here to take its place.
Put the rope round you, like the heart asks. Coil its length around yourself, all the parts worth saving, which—as the heart says—is every bit of you. Even the ugly. Even the gross. Wrap it round you until it’s become your skin. Until breaths come barely and difficult.
When the heart begins its lift, trust. You will fight at first, and this is expected. The heart knows this and holds strong against your squirm. Even as days pass. Even as months. The heart lets you beat your head against the stones because it knows this is what you need to do before the saving can come. The heart knows you will tire.
It knows you will remember what saving looks like.
It knows that when you remember, your body will go limp with trust, become weightless. Only then will it pull you up. Raise you from the darkness, into its waiting arms, blood-spent and ridiculous.
Go into those arms. Give the heart its reward. Take some for yourself. It was hard for you too.
After you are done, step from the uncoiled rope, turn, and look down. Note the depths it pulled you from. Remember that distance as you remember the saving.
Remember it all.