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"The rest of you looks fine. It's just the . . . you know . . . the fat." Only a fat heart can take such ridicule; a lesser heart latex would stop to shed tears. Mine, mine keeps on beating, as latex if saying, "I am too big for your shit." latex If the size of my heart is the size of my fist, then my heart is roughly equivalent to a standard sized softball. I imagine it looks like a heart drawn in the hands of a four-year-old--misshapen, imperfect, distorted, unbreakable, a heart Hallmark can never replicate. My heart knows how to forgive, to love again, to move on. For twenty-five years, I have lived. Still am living. Will continue to live for, hopefully, more than twenty-five years. I am in the greater risk column. I have survived heartache, heartbreak. What about heart attack? What happens if my heart, the engine of my body, stalls?
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