origami heart

the candlelight takes our secrets and wraps them in coils of flame. so when the morning comes, they die with it. illuminated by the absence of shadows, you took out an origami heart. pressed it into my shivering hand. the flame roared, swallowing your silhouette like an all-you-can-eat buffet. and my fingers traced roads of weathered creases and crooked folds of what could have been. some tears are mountains and rise up to meet me, while others my fingerprint glides past. your heart is torn in half, crumpled and wrinkled and full of rage. i look at the microscopic stretch of paper holding it together, no bigger than an ant. david before goliath. it is so delicate, so frail i could crush it in my palm. cleanse the weakness by obeying rules laid down upon the stone tablets of civilization for millennia. but i do not. instead, i take my virgin heart and rip it down the middle. now, we are both broken.