film: paper heart

Paper Heart

John looked out his window and watched petals fall from the tree that stood next to his window. Blossoms fading with the wind and the season. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip and he glanced to the opposite wall of his room. Pictures littered the wall of those times, of those years.

He got up and walked over. Gently taking a photo from the wall, he gazed down at the happy faces. Tears feel on it and he jerked his face away, fearful to blur the memory. The tears continued to fall as he looked over the wall that made him feel close to them again.

Soon it was all too much and he sat down so he wouldn’t fall as sobs shook his whole body. His tears fell unchecked as he closed his eyes and let the happy memories wash over him in hot waves. Every memory turned bittersweet as he clutched at his chest with one hand and the picture in the other. He wanted them back desperately.

His heart squeezed as his terrible thoughts raced each other to break him down faster. This was his fault and he knew it. He had brought them into this, he had brought them into his life and they had shared so much together. He hiccuped and couldn’t breathe for a moment before his eyes opened and he thought he could hear them.

John hugged himself and wept as the picture fell from his hand. He lived through these pictures now, as they held the last scrap of his perfect years. Maybe it would be better for him to stop breathing. He shook his head and ripped at his hair.

He looked back up at the wall and stood. He began slowly, picture by picture, memory by memory. Each photo fell from his hands as he took them off of the wall. Soon they were all gone except one. Right in the middle, a photo taken by a photographer that had happened to be passing by them on the beach. Their backs and the setting sun, hands and legs intwined, utterly unaware of the time that had slipped away from them. He left that one there and pressed his lips to the photo.

John picked up the rest of the pictures and put them in a box they had gifted him. Taking the box, he put it high in his closet before he went back on his perch by the window and looked out. “Please don’t forget.”

I’ve been a little MIA lately - so sorry! I’ve been working hard on a book project (exciting!!) and cutting cutting cutting…. I’ll probably be spamming your feeds with all of my little projects now ;)
This is a little floral heart I cut a couple of weeks ago. The original is sold but I have slightly different ones available that can be personalized with your names! <3

Papercut art by Sarah Trumbauer

Paper Heart

• a piece written by acheeseinthetrap •

As thin as the sheet made of wood line,
Facilely cut with astonishment and sublime.
Satisfying yet intriguing, why would you do that thing?
It can be viewed as a hurtful sting but understandably a fleeting feeling.

Fragile as the mug made of glass,
But bruised in a way where no one would even dare to ask.
Hopelessly mending without other’s healing,
Even if it turned into scar, why is it still bleeding?

Darling, you wrecked a piece of me.
A part of my entirety.
Shattered for you made me too close.
Was devoured when your flames left me absorbed.

You couldn’t sense it for you are the shank,
while I am the material you were obliged to finish.
But darling, I’ve said I only want you to be frank–
Not to make me vanish.

Just like my tiny paper heart,
Our affinity was teared apart.
You had no choice but to leave, we had to part,
And this tiny paper heart, will soon be called an art.


I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me.
That you are a child playing with matches and I
have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a
softer voice and stronger arms. She will not have
violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and
I’ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys
who never learn my last name.

I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep
beside me. You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl
who writes poems about you. You think I’ll understand
your sadness because I live inside my own. But I
will show up at your door at 2 a.m. wild-eyed and
sleepless, asking to find some semblance of peace
in your breastbone, and you will not let me in.
You will tell me to go home.
—  Clementine von Radics, “Paper Heart”