Please Don't Leave Me Hanging

My heart is hanging from my mouth on a quivering gold thread and in your hands are the only pair of scissors in the world that can cut it.

The wings are stiff and cobwebbed from disuse; the only thing keeping my heart in one piece is the thread, running through the centre like a spine. One snip of slim metallic legs and I'm dust, running through your fingers, surfing on the wind and hiding in your hair, powdered hands cradling your head as you dream. I'll grip onto your breath, white-knuckled, and rest in the hammocks of your lungs. That way I'll be a part of you always, since there is no place for me in your heart.

"Cut it."

"But you'll die..."

"I'm dead already. You killed me."

Can't you see? My blood is still warm but my bones are made of old rotted wood. Not even the woodlice want me. And what is this thing they call a spirit? There's nothing in me but two shrivelled apricots for lungs and a mound of yellow cigarette butts. A soul? The only soul I know is the soles of my feet that haven't touched the ground since the moment I met you.

"If my heart is too heavy for you to carry in your pocket, then cut the string and let me go."

You cut the string. The scissors snicker, whispering, like a rat running through dry grass. My heart fractures down the middle then succumbs to gravity's cruel seduction, the way I always knew it would. The thread drifts, aimless now, like a string with no balloon. It doesn't know what to do with itself and knowing that makes me smile. My cheeks split and buckle.

The last thing I see is the tip of my nose beginning to crumble.