My heart often breaks in so many places
I wonder how large and soft it must be to have so many fractures
Yet at times I cannot feel it in my chest
like my hands, quick and creative
Slow to strike a living thing
Yet I wake with dirt and blood beneath my nails
Wishing some devil had driven me but recalling all the details
Made of glass
And the wind whistles through the cracks
Until it all crumbles…
Everything…
Heart, head, limbs, blood, bile
Yet I find I am mistaken when another break
Marches from the center of my heart
To its eastward corner
To beat in my bosom another day.
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