Something found you when you were young and fresh and your heart was a fragile wet thing, just molded out of clay. It was old and dark, practiced at seeking out those soft spots, so it took you in its hands and its teeth, marked you with its thumbprints and changed the rhythm of your beating.
We hang that defining, prehistoric moment in amber, let it sit in our chests, spin the universe around it. Lately, I've been watching what's inside mine. More and more often we sit, back to back, scale to skin, on opposite sides of the glass.
Prompt: How are you battling your habits?