When you tell a story like this one, you don’t want people to look at you and back away slowly. You want to put your words out there and then look into their eyes and find acceptance, if not open welcome. You want to have them embrace your emotions, if not your person. But when it happens – as it often does – that they back away with that wild animal look in their eyes, you know you’ve gone too far, and that maybe telling them why you’re here doesn’t bode well for your futures together.
But what can you do about it when you’re all incarcerated for killing someone you should have loved?

Stephen King

Breaking hearts, kept in jars on someone else’s desk.
Broken hearts, pieced back together on the potter’s wheel, moulded and shattered, then with a little glue made mosaics.
Healing hearts, beating again, but strangely, these frankensteinian creations, shaped out of more than one.
Pieces, parted from their original function – a little bit of Stephen King strung together, and still:
The heart of a young boy, in a jar on my desk.

If I feel rage

I won't deny it.

I won't fear love.