In my middle school health class, they told me that

the human heart is roughly the size of a fist.

I don't remember what the teacher said next, because I was too busy

curling my fingers into my palm.

Surely, whatever I was feeling had to have been made by something larger than my frail hands;

something more powerful

than my thirteen-year-old fist.

I closed my eyes

and punched the desk as hard as I could,

the skin on my knuckles tore open,

blood surfacing, shooting

pain up my arm,

and I walked with teary eyes

to the principles office.

I could only say that I was testing my heart.

These days, I still ball my hand into a fist and just

stare at it for a bit.

I do this every day,

and sometimes I'll punch something,

like my desk, or a wall,

or the drawer that holds all the letters she wrote me.

My fist has gotten a little larger since then,

but it still breaks and bleeds just the same.

- ao-oa