The heart is a playground, a crawl space between your pigeonholed stockings, the white of hotel bed sheets bleeding through the surface of its paper skin;
Don’t touch me
Don’t touch me,
Why aren’t you touching me?
I know that’s what I said but– forgive me.

The heart is pulling out stitches, it’s the pile of silence sitting at the bottom of the staircase, listening for the footsteps that sound closest to yours.
The heart is a fractured wrist, a hand posed like a statue, palm positioned upright, so much to say, nothing left to say, fingers waiting to grab hold of the first fistful of language, that it can understand.
The heart is a tightrope tongue, a game of tug of war neither side will ever win, she’s the voice that whistles down the edges of your shoulder blades asking, why we couldn’t keep loving each other.

The heart is an old house with no windows, it’s an open field sitting in the soft mouth of the lion that it promised you it was.
It’s the spaces between collarbones, it’s the color of fear
that sits in the backs of our throats like a freight train, that tries to crawl out from between our teeth the second we begin to think the words “I love you”,
It’s the lump in our throats we try to swallow down before we ever remember,
that the heart is the only part of us
that hasn’t
given up
yet.


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