Notepaper heart, you’re crumpled at the edges and singed in the right ventricle. A spark ignited. Fire. There is a permanent mark in between your pulmonary valves.

Don’t touch the open wound, it’s delicate.  

Notepaper heart, something is happening. There’s a man who found you and is currently filling your void with scraps of his notepaper heart. He promises to steal bits and pieces of you and replace them with his fragments.

Papier-mâché.