Limbo (inspired by 'Who gets the Heart' ' Channel 4)

My heart is broken.

I am an impasse, in a cul-de-sac of self loathing for this paradoxical heart that refuses to give-up giving-up, yet does not have the strength to give.

If I were an optimist I would be half-alive. If I were a pessimist I would be half-dead.

I am realist, I am neither dead nor alive, a zombie in limbo until this heart makes up its mind whose side it is on; mine or mine?

I stand naked in front of the mirror and stroke my hand down the angry scar that runs from apple to navel. I pluck at the grey skin on either side with fingernails the colour of bruises. I worry the skin and tug harder until it peels back revealing ribs held in place by wire, braces for the heart. I grasp each side of my ribs and pull out, the white bars squeak on rusting hinges. I scoop up my left lung and shove it towards my armpit, securing it as if it were a braid with a crocodile clip.

And there it is my treacherous heart, nestled centre-left. I look directly into its chambers, I don't blink. It quivers and tries to burrow further into my chest, but my hands are nimble and I grab it, I make it look me square in the eyes.

Coward, I mumble under my breath, you and me need to talk, man to man, I tell it, it flops in my palm and stops¦ is silent. Don't play dead, I scold, you fat, lazy muscle, do you hear me, you fat fucker. I look at it closely; I feel no recognition, no claim on its parentage. You are not mine, you can't be mine, I say, my hands open palmed. My heart; the one I was born with, pulsed with a vital beat that I could see in my neck. My heart liked to run and jump and shout. You are an impostor, I tell it, it shivers. Who are you? I squeeze it into reply, it beats for a few moments in memory laden pulses that shoot through my veins and bring pink hope to my lips. I open my hand, it beats one more time then shakes and quivers, fat and flaccid.

My daughter's breath drifts through the keyhole and scents the room in candyfloss and daisies. Don't come in sweetie, daddy's busy, I say, shamefully covering the fat lump of gristle with my hands. Daddy are you all right, her voice trickles around the gaps of the door. I'm fine, I reply through lying teeth, you go out into the garden and play; I'll be down to watch, soon. Her feet patter in a paediatric pulse downstairs, the backdoor slams. I return my focus to the mirror, dropping my hands by my side, my lips navy.

I hear a whisper, a breathless voice coming from my chest; I stare hard at my heart. What are you saying, speak up, I growl. I feel it sigh, it reddens with effort. What do you want me to do? You are asking me? I am shocked by its audacity, my mouth opens, but the words don't come. I, I, I don't know, I mouth, and my reflection nods in agreement.

Do you want me to recover? I find myself back in that suffocating hospital room, lying awake in a cold panic listening for every beat, my breaths sharp and shallow. Don't give up, please don't stop, I am suffocating, I am drowning, pump you bastard, pump...

Do you want me stop? My daughter's squeals bring me back to the present, disembodied joy floating on the afternoon air, surrounding me in memories of rough and tumble. Just stop, just give up, then I can find my real heart, my true heart. But what if, I can't, what if I run out of time, what if there is no heart waiting for me. Is half a life better than none at all?

Do you want to go on the transplant list? Its mesmerising voice confusing all reason, do you? do you? I nod then shake my head, I , I , I don't know. Do you want me to keep trying to recover? do you? do you? I begin to cry, I don't know; my ribs rattle. You must decide, it teases. I am the heart not the brain.

I pull on my clothes, resting between each sock; I check the batteries on the artificial heart that measures my life in duracell. I try to slow my breathing and I feel my lungs fill with air that squeak on expulsion like discarded bagpipes.

I am half a man, half a husband, half a father, half dead¦ or is it half alive?

My heart is broken.