No title.

I loved you with my whole entire heart.

And now it’s back and it’s all wrinkled and rotten and soggy.

And it’s used up and weak and sick.

So I have taken to meticulously building a small wall-

I layer a rock and a pebble and a leaf and a flower and I tie it tight with dandelion roots, leaving only the top of my beating mass exposed.

I kiss my weary heart gently, eyes closed, then I seal the top of this satchel with one final stitch.


Around that I lay brick and mortar, I surround that with fire and brimstone.

I scoop out a mote around this fortress and fill it with unsettled waters- crashing waves.

I barely get out of this, my own deadly obstacle course, alive.


I come to shore, bruised- and I look back at the walls and roadblocks I’ve created.


If I, the creator, can barely make it to and from my sad little heart, how can I expect anyone to come save it?

How can I expect someone to slay the dragons, cross the  mote, put out the fires, break down the walls, and then gently untie the knots on the envelope around it?

Only to do all of these things to find a sick, unlovable, mass?

To expect these things is unfair.  To expect saving AND healing- it’s too much.



I will dissuade princes and kings and knights from coming near.

Its better I keep the location of my heart very secret.  I will do my best to make sure it stays hidden and safe.

I won’t talk about my heart, I’ll quiet whispers of it.

I will pretend it doesn’t…that it never existed.


Better to be safe, then sorry.




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