The Heart

I don't let my heart in the house enough. Last I heard it was flopping around in the backyard, spilling blood all over the roses and dandelions. I can't have a major organ deteriorating like that when I have the power to place it on my canvas, surrounded by cherubs and chocolate valentines. A dealer might come and buy the whole thing, relieving me of a body part that's been nothing but trouble, only slightly less dangerous than the mischievous turtle bouncing between my legs. An attack on the heart would be worst. Gangsters could block its ventricles with lead. Cops might mistake it for an armed assailant and beat it with a stick till it stomped pumping in defenseless blood. I'd have to move to another house, cold and drafty, that I won't be able to complain about. My neighbors and I would be the quietest watch you've ever seen; people could leave flowers and offerings on our lawn, and we'd be unable to get up to take them inside with us. Someone could even steal our bodies, twitter with our innards, find out how we lost and bought our final real estate.