I'm talking about hearts

In high school I was a B average student. 

Worse when it came to math or science

 or anything that had to do with hard thinking. 

I didn't know what I was doing. 

I still don't.

But I do know that I was lame. 

Uncool....probably...

But not that kind of lame. 

The kind where you're unable to walk normally

 because of an injury or because of an illness. 

You see, I used to be just this pin on a map. 

Stuck in that one spot. 

Until someone tied a string to me.

And connected me to another pin. 

And another one 

And another. 

Until I took a step back and saw constellations.

And now I'm right up there

With the rest of em. 

Figuring out how to adjust to the gravity change.
How to deal with the oxygen levels. 

I think I'm suppose to give off some sort of light...

I'm not sure what the rules are yet. 

And I know what you're thinking. 

"Great...another poem about stars and space" 

But the thing is I'm not talking about outer space. 

I'm talking about a different kind of space. 

The space in between your lungs. 

Trapped in your rib cage. 

I'm talking about hearts. 

Broken hearts.

Diseased hearts. 

Heart attacks. 

Even cardiac arrest. 

Because we all have fears. 

Different levels of fears. 

And underneath all of them there's silence. 

The kind of silence that means you aren't hearing your heart beat. 

We could slip away in our sleep, we could be killed on impact. 

Or by someone's hands. 

We could say goodbye to our loved ones

 and not even know it would be our last time.

Our parachutes could forget how to work 

or our hearts could quit 

without even handing in their two weeks notice. 

That's where my fear lies. 

In the heart. 

See, I'm stressed about not hearing my heart 

and my stress is stressing my heart 

and that stress is making my parents stress 

and their stress is giving me more stress

 and we're all just sitting here stressing. 

Diseasing our hearts. 

And I've had to learn that sometimes some things so broken can never be fixed. 

But that doesn't mean I want that to be my heart.

There's these people in Japan take these beautiful pots and smash them 

then paint the broken pieces' edges with gold and put the pot back together again. 

If that doesn't speak to you I don't know what would. 

And you would think this is for the hopeless 

but this is for the golden flecked ones,

who take their two fingers and presses them 

against their neck.