The thing about a heart
is that you can't actually break it.
It's not brittle enough
to give a satisfying crack.
So, instead, I picture the muscle
fighting against your clenched fist,
desperate to expand, to beat,
to pump the blood that seeps
from between your merciless fingers.
You have me, but I don't think
either of us ever knew what that could mean.
I was never prepared for the pain
and you were never prepared for the consequences,
that I might still love you, even
while I hate you a little, even
while I resent the power you have over me,
a puppet gnawing at invisible strings.
Wounds heal and we forget them.
You stab me in the same place,
every single time, and I still manage
the same stupid look of surprise.

10/27/2011

Posted on 10/27/2011
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