The Heart

The heart is a really funny organ. It does all the work - pumping blood, keeping us alive. But it never gets the credit. It is small, yet it has to learn to man up and be the strongest. Not because it knows it is, but because it know it has to. Because if it dies, all the rest around it will stop functioning as well. Because it knows, that if it were to fail, even once, that was it, it was the end.

So what am I? A heart. The one that pumps laughter and pain and memories into the bodies and minds of the people around me. Those who don't need it I can forgo, because then it does not concern them. But those I hold dear, I know I have to keep pumping, even if it means I will be torn to shreds, even if I know I have to push beyond my limits. I cannot fail not now, not ever.

I will never be happy, until those around me are happy.

My sister is what undid me. Her passing destroyed a part of me. I was the heart, but I let her fail. I was the heart, but I didn't do enough. Maybe if I pumped enough blood, maybe if I pumped harder, pumped faster. She will still be here, and the human body which we are all apart of as a family, can be whole again.

I am a heart. But a weak one.