The little girl wore her heart on her sleeve. It kept falling, being stepped on, and put back into place like it fited. She learned new ways, so hidden it in a place where it couldn't be seen. Or touched. Only dreamed about. It was only hers. She was hers. She was her own owner and every once in a while, was that fact close to changing.
Every now and then she considered letting it out, but no one stayed long enough to see the secret spot, to dig deeper enough, to search with the right tools, to watch with the right eyes. Every time there was a bump, the heart got more and more sinked, floating in bottles of bad wine, swalled in nights of pain and uncertainty. That's how she liked her drink - with a lot of ice and a good dose of misery.
She never met the feeling of being falling upon free will - there was always something that gave her the push to trespass the border.
Her world was seen through realistic eyes, and she knew: People always come with death, love always brings deception and alcohol always brings hangover. She just preferred the last evil.
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