Selena’s heart is a peony. It blooms when he is near, pollen bursting from his touch. It shrivels in the cold, the dark, his absence as cool as the leather jacket he steals away with.

Selena’s heart is a mourning-dove, busying itself in the waters of the marble bath and preening rituals. Its feathers spread against the bracing winds, and ruffle when touched. Its beak shuts and quavers as she rouges her cheeks, powders her nose, glosses her lips.

Selena’s heart is a pair of satin gloves, bracing themselves against the smooth, worn curve of an automobile, pressing into the wheel with an insistence that promises a turn. Selena stays on the same road, barreling forwards, past sheet-metal signs, emblazoned in dollar-green paint, shimmering under the sunlight.

Selena’s heart is a mermaid, bound for the depth while encased in flesh-metal scales and emotion thick skin. She descends with grace, as though resigned to the Ford as her final casket.