How to Bake a Heart

Intro:

They say grief transforms us into monsters.

But before we dive in, a little backstory—every good recipe needs one, and you’ll want to understand where it all unraveled.

He wasn’t the first man to steal my heart. Just the last one I allowed in long enough to rot me from within. He spoke of "forever” with lips stained by someone else’s kiss. He brought me flowers when I detested that kind of bloom. He abandoned me in January, a cliché biting through the cold. Yet, here I am, ready to pick gravel from my knees to return to the night he whispered my name like it was a fragile secret.

That’s what this recipe is for. Not for closure. Not for healing. Just… rewind. One more night enveloped in shadows, his voice echoing in my ear. Just one more lie to cling to. I wouldn’t let him share his life with anyone else. So, I did what any rational person would: I killed him. But that’s a secret. He’s still technically ‘missing’, and I’m growing weary of masquerading as the heartbroken ex-girlfriend.

I stumbled upon this recipe, scribbled in the margins of a charred tome, the ink blurred and smudged by what I pray was wax. Or tears. Or something far more sinister.

The act of copying it down eludes my memory—only the insatiable hunger lingers.

This isn’t for the faint-hearted—only for those who yearn to summon back what they’ve lost.

If that resonates with you, keep reading. But heed this warning: once the oven's preheated, there’s no turning back.

And if you sense something lurking behind you while you stir… don’t stop. That means it’s working.

Yields: One resurrection.

Prep Time: You’ve already waited too long.

Ingredients:

1 still-warm human heart (his)

A bowl of bile scraped from your stomach the morning after he left

7 fingernails, pulled from the corpse of someone who loved too much

A lock of hair—you know which one

One bloodstained love letter, torn by your teeth

A handful of teeth pulled from decaying gums

Salt—coarse, like his voice that last night

A dead tongue

Maggots (for garnish)

Ashes of everything that was is

Instructions:

1. Begin with silence. Not the kind that comforts. The kind that lingers after the sirens fade. After the neighbors stop asking questions. After you scrub the blood from under your nails for the twelfth time, it still won’t come clean. You need that kind of silence. You’ll need it to concentrate.

2. Retrieve the heart. You remember where you buried him. Behind the shed, under the wisteria he hated. It’s been three nights. The soil still gives easily if you use your hands. The heart will be cold at first, slick with rot and memory. That’s fine. Warm it between your palms. Speak to it if it helps. Call him back.

3. In a chipped mixing bowl, combine the bile and salt. The bile is yours, forced up after that last dream. The salt—from your tears, if you can summon any. If not, use the sea salt you kept in the kitchen for margaritas you never drank alone.

4. Add the fingernails. They come off more easily when the body is still fresh. That was a lesson you learned the hard way. Press each one into the mixture, ensuring they are fully submerged.

5. Place the heart in the bowl. Press it down until it bleeds again. Watch the juices mix with the bile. The heart will resist—it should. If it doesn't, you waited too long.

6. Add the tongue. Slice cleanly. If you fumble, it will scream. That’s normal. Do not flinch. He never did when he lied to you.

7. Tear the letter. You kept it in your nightstand, didn’t you? Folded and unfolded so many times, the edges curled. Bite through the paper. It has to taste of blood. Soak the pulp in the chambers of the heart. Let it drip through the ventricles. It needs to be remembered.

8. Add the lock of hair. You cut it from his head while he slept, before the end. You said it was for a locket. He laughed. He didn’t know it would be for this.

9. Fold in the teeth. They should rattle. Like bones. Like endings. Like the night you found the earrings in his glove compartment.

10. Coat the mess in ash. The past must burn before it feeds you. Stir with a wooden spoon until it groans. Until you feel dizzy. Until the kitchen walls start pulsing like lungs.

11. Bake at 666°F. No timer. You’ll know it’s ready when the smoke forms his silhouette in the window. Don’t let him in. Not yet.

12. Remove the heart. If it twitches, he’s listening. If it explodes, don’t scream. He always hated noise during dinner.

13. Plate it on the chipped porcelain dish from your anniversary. The one he left in the sink for three days. Wipe off the mold. No, don’t. The mold adds a nice contrast to the dish's flavor. Garnish with maggots you picked out of the trash.

14. Light the candle. Whisper his name. If you followed the steps correctly, his silhouette will appear across from you. Feed him a piece. If he cries, he remembers. If he doesn’t, keep feeding him. Keep going until he chokes. Love is messy. Resurrection, more so.

Notes:

-Do not refrigerate. Let it rot with the rest of your hope.

-And blood. Always more blood.

-Season to taste, too sweet? Add more bile. Too bitter, more salt.

Warnings:

-Consuming alone may result in seizures, hallucinations, or visions of who they were.

-Reheating causes irreversible madness.

-After consuming, allow them to rot like the promises they made.

Important:

If the heart resumes beating, congratulations—love can be a chaotic rebirth.

If it remains still, cold, slick, and vacant...

You didn’t fail; you simply weren’t loved enough to be reciprocated.

Lay the remnants to rest in a quiet place. Not for them, but for you. Do this before it begins to whisper your name at night.

And whatever you do, refrain from attempting to bake again.

The departed don’t appreciate being called upon twice.