32

My heart is better referred to as a dungeon. Or maybe a flytrap. The poor souls of mankind flutter in and elegantly, obsessively, adhere to the sticky paper that occludes entry to my heart. "The best view I've ever had," they all say. Stuck, and content. But eventually I grow bored, I always do, and they violently thrash about, their bones grind and chunks of flesh rip from limb - they may eventually become free, but parts of them remain mine forever, and they always seem to think I'll make them whole again if they return. But eventually I'll grow bored, I always do.