shiny little chains around your heart
He cares not for her transparency.
Her body a ghost, listlessly floating from house to house hoping for someone to touch her. Really, feel her.
But he doesn’t care whether she is limpid or completely muddy, he says.
She grasps at someone and everything but no one seems to be able to feel her.
They all can reach through her body and into her chest to clench in their large hands the red within and rip it out and tear it up and throw it down. But then turn away, as if nothing happened, really. Red still running down their fingertips, hitting the dirt underfoot, and evaporating at once.
In disbelief and confusion, she melts down slowly and touches where her heart must have fallen but finds nothing. For empty she is and has been, and there is nothing truly there. Nothing can be done.