Rough Draft:

Disregarding the fact that it bled in her hand as she carried it down the street, she thought about the different ways this could have happened. The way it fell out would not have been her choice. She would have liked to spit it out, or one day feel it at the bottom of her stomach. Sometimes she would dream of it crawling out of her anus and finding it the next morning on the pillow beside her. Thumping like she heard it. Beating, like the way she felt it.

But it just fell out.

On the streetcar she sits alone against the window and looks around. There is an old man muttering to himself. An Asian couple whispering loudly, in the back a baby cries for attention: There are enough of them to hear it. She looks around to see if anyone is watching her. No one. She clutches it against the jacket that covers the hole, it’s still beating, the blood it pumps out is still warm. 

Funny, she thinks to herself, though there is now a hole where it used to be she feels complete. In any case, the people she’s talked to says it’s perfectly normal. You don’t fully feel it until it dies completely. She moves the scarf a bit to uncover her still beating heart. Still purple and red, the right colours. When is it ought to die anyway? She better put it in water soon.