Earlier today, I spontaneously arrived at the conclusion that I favor the phrase “my heart was stolen” over “I gave my heart to…”. These are two phrases that I believe most people would view to be the same but to me, are powerfully different, and equally as beautiful. To give your heart to someone means that you have kept a firm grip on it, whether it be because of someone abusing your love in the past, spitefully divorced parents who have tarnished your idea of what love is supposed to be like, fear that the bond you and another share will fade away while you lay there hoping, or maybe you’re just careful. But for whatever reason you may have, you have been keeping your heart close to you in much more than the obvious, physical manner. To give your heart to somebody means you believe that they’ve earned your trust and love. You’ve let all your walls, security measurements, and protocols down so that you may finally embrace another. By my last sentence, it should be apparent that giving your heart to someone is very risky , but to have it stolen, can be much more frightening. To have your heart stolen is hardly, if ever, under your control. It takes a little time, but when it happens, it’s sudden. You don’t even realize that a person is quietly picking the locks to your chest. Maybe you weren’t being careful. You never intended for your heart to be in the hands of another person, but turning back is no longer an option. To “have your heart stolen” and “to give your heart to another person” are both equally beautiful experiences with the possibility to be devastating. Picking a rose doesn’t come without the threat of thorns, after all. To talk on a more personal note: I would much rather have my heart stolen, than to give it up. My heart is well guarded and well hidden, and if you have the skill to take it from me, then for better or for worse, it is yours.
My foot could not have pressed the accelerator down anymore without stomping a hole through the car’s floor. I stopped looking in the rearview window, because the view was the same. Three pigs managing to operate vehicles were hot on my tail. My lover and partner in crime was in the passenger sear, flipping through the money in a duffel bag. “Stop playing with Benjamin and spear these pigs”, I said, opening the glove box and pointing to a loaded pistol. Her rebuttal was, “How about you just lose em already!?” “I can’t seem to shake them.” The car was pushing 130 through outer Los Angeles, I was praying to Hell’s Angels as a last resort of hope. A small cliff, overlooking the Pacific lay ahead. “There gaining on us”, Roxie said. She was one of the strongest females I knew, but her eyes gave away all of her fears. I took a deep breath, stared at her a few more seconds, then to the ocean. “We murdered people back there. I won’t do a lifetime in prison. I think we may need to take a dip.” She held my gaze, processing my statement. Understanding. She didn’t say anything besides, “I love you”, then she grabbed my hand as we headed straight for a turn that would head straight off the cliff. The police sirens were drowned out by my own breathing. I had reached an undeniable sense of clarity about what was about to occur. The car’s steering wheel began to shake with the increasing speed, but the rest of my body remained dead still. Going over the edge was one of the most peaceful things I’ve ever experienced. The drop was not nearly as high as I thought it was going to be. The impact into the water didn’t even shatter the glass, although there were cracks in it. As I regained focus, I watched the car being slowly filled with water. We sank gradually down. I looked over and noticed that I’m somehow still holding Roxie’s hand. I could see it in her hazel eyes that she had expected this fate. It was not a beaten look, but an accepted one. We would either drown or suffocate, or simply be crushed by the pressure of the water. We spent our last breaths kissing each other more deeply than the ocean floor that became our grave.