I’m starting to think I’ll be back. The memory of you stains my skin. Until I’m clawing at it like it’s bugs beneath the surface. The memory of the way my heart could feel haunts me. My heart.


My stupid little heart
Is halfway to broke
She’s always been on the verge of breakdown. Flimsy band-aids holding her pieces together.
I guess bitter comes when those band-aids break. And the cracks are exposed. And I’ve got no control over when she beats. When she sleeps. When she hurts or when she loves.
She’s surrounded by other organs who get a break once and awhile. Things take over and they go on vacation.
My pancreas sipping maithais in between my lungs and my spine.
But my heart doesn’t take a break. No vacation for her. She’s in there, working her shifts every day, every night, all day long. All night long.
And sometimes I forget to thank her, for not letting me shut down. For holding onto those band-aids as tight as she can, until I can think of a bigger and better fix.
Trouble is heart spackle isn’t sold anywhere near here. And I can’t order it online. I have tried. I have.
I’ve tried to find remedy in easy things like crushes and a transfer of feeling onto impractical people. I’ve tried to push things on her, fixes I think will work. But end up breaking more bricks, than fixing.
Her muscle torn and strained. I think of resistance. And how it works to build muscle. Strain against it until it’s strong enough to blast through.
And I ask her. Just how much resistance she needs in order to be strong enough.
But she wont answer. And I’ve forgotten how to ask differently.
I guess I’m wrong. Cause she’s not stupid or little. But the size of mountains. And smart enough to stick it out inside my chest. Rather than exposed to the elements on my sleeve like I asked her to be.
She’s clever too. More clever than I give her credit for. Cause like McDonalds breakfast, she sneaks up on me when I least expect it and proves just how stupid my spontaneous decision making can be.
But I’d like to pull her out of my chest some day. Hold her in my hands and just stare at her while she gasps for something she can’t have. But needs in order to survive.
And I justify it to myself that it’s ok, because that’s what she does to me.
But really, we’ll each go to bed tonight thinking about the other. Wondering who gets to make the first move.
But me and love aren’t on speaking terms.
At least not today.
So I can’t believe it’ll be me.