Olivia cut her heart on her typewriter and it hasn’t stopped bleeding. With each keystroke, her breath becomes shallower, but her gaze stays strong and she has always dreamed of dissolving into her work. Some nights she goes to sleep and the imprint of the circular keys is etched into her fingertips; she calls them her finger prints.
Olivia avoids eye contact as if a passerby could reach into her and twist the air out of her lungs with a single look. She likes to think that the way people walk reveal the kind of person they are, but sometimes she thinks that for a society so obsessed with God, people spend an awful lot of time forgetting about the sky.
Olivia whispers into her diary at night, because she knows that is what she is supposed to do. To be honest, sometimes she doesn’t have the resolve to find a pen, so instead she just muffles her head into her sheets and hopes the fabric remembers the remnants of her words in the morning. She’s scared that one day she’s going to bruise her own heart, but more than that she’s scared to let someone else try holding it.