A small box painted light blue on the inside.
I am not sure of the outside colour … dark … red maybe, to blend in with its surroundings.
It is the pale blue that is important. A sort of dirty colour, a little bit grey, a little bit blue. Like a sky on a dull afternoon when it cannot decide between.
Although it is in a box there must be some small holes because a heart needs veins and arteries to let its blood in and out. I know at least as much as that.
I also know that although mine is in a box painted pale blue, it is not dead or dry. It still does its job, so there must be some holes. I just cannot quite see them.
I can see, or can I just feel it nestled in my chest, behind my ribs, near my lungs?
The box has corners of course, but they are not sharp. It does not poke me from within, it just sits quietly protecting my heart with its soft blue walls.
There are no blood spatters on these walls either. Everything is intact. It is all quite neat and tidy in fact. I do not think you can see my little box painted blue that holds my heart. If you place your hand here, under mine, you can just know.
It is is here, in my chest, sitting heavy.
Something that has been floating around in my heart, and carried in my chest for a number of days now. It’s nice when you can see things in colour.