My heart feels walked on, stolen, spray-painted.  Like someone decided they earned the piece of me that never gets a break.  

Usually, I see deep beauty found in street art--vandalizations--a kind of voice people just needed to scream at the walls, not really wanting any one specific person to hear but wanting to be seen and noticed all the same.  Yet, when I picture a human heart that has been ruptured by vandalizations I get all squirmy inside. I see my own, feeling nauseous and crummy from the cans and the brushes that strangers held to my chest. I want to have a say in the finished product. Somehow that makes sense to me: that I would get to be the artist of my own heart, but the strangers don’t have ears, only eyes and hands, and they paint colors that don’t belong to me.  A design that turns my heart into something that it’s not. And the worst part is, most often I have no awareness until long after the destruction.