May 11, 2008.

I fell asleep against the cold bus window, green turning to black outside and rushing by in a blur, my heart in my lap. It's a little malformed, bugeyed, slack-mouthed flesh lump about the size of my fist that sits there, speechless and stupid, leaking slowly onto everything around it. We have worked out some mutual tolerance, if only because we're bound by some measure of history and biology. I hate to be seen with it, it's like an old friend who's turned embarrassing and won't take a hint. It's always hanging around, tied to my ankle and bouncing along the street behind me and I feel like everyone can see it, like I walk to the shop in the morning for a Snickers bar and the neighbours say "Oh, there goes Astrid and her heart again, don't stare."