Tin Man's Lament

I sold my heart to the junkman. 

Lately, I’ve been trying to buy it back, but I can’t scrape up enough currency. I go down to the junk yard late at night. I empty my pockets for the man, but he always shakes his head and sends me away.

They say to buy low and sell high. I sold my heart at well below market price. A stupid thing to do, I know, but I wanted to be rid of it then. I thought it brought me bad luck, and that it encouraged me to take crazy chances with my life. Worst of all, it made me vulnerable. That’s what bothered me most.

I had a good heart, if you can believe that. It wasn’t brand new. It had some scuffs and scratches on it and a small crack down one side. But it worked. It could hold a lot and give even more. I had no problem selling it. In return, I got a little surivival kit. It came with cynicism, suspicion, a thick book of sarcastic phrases and a pamphlet titled The Most Helpful Lies.

I thought I’d never get hurt again. I’d keep myself distant, armed with cynicism, constantly in control, always ready to say goodbye and never look back. You know what? It’s easier to break hearts if you don’t have one. For years I relished the power I had given myself.

But as time went by, something changed. I could get into relationships but couldn’t enjoy them. I liked the chase, the seduction, the conquest. I didn't know what came next. I envied the love others could give me; the trust, the warmth, the patience. I couldn’t give it back, even when they deserved it, even when I wanted to. I just couldn’t.

It also got harder for me to conceal the misanthrope I’d become. At a party or with friends I’d blurt out something from my thick book of sarcasm and my timing would be all wrong. Unable to apologize, I only became more arrogant, more isolated, pouring out the snark until I was inevitably alone again, smirking awkwardly from a distant corner, lukewarm drink in my hand.

Nowadays I can’t sleep, can’t find contentment. I’ve turned my life into a series of games and conquests. I walk around secretly hoping the right person will come along and snap me out of this, but how? Every day I’m back where I started with nothing to show for myself; just this groaning cavity inside of me where my heart used to be.

So I want it back, that old scuffed-up ticker. I want to feel vulnerable again. I want to feel that buzz of blinding adoration and trust I’ve so long denied myself. I want to return the warmth to those I kept in the cold. I want everything to matter again before it’s too late.

Problem is ... I sold my heart to the junkman. 

Lately, I’ve been trying to buy it back, but I can’t scrape up enough currency. I go down to the junk yard late at night. I empty my pockets for the man, but he shakes his head and sends me away. 

He always shakes his head and sends me away.