Nineteen

We’re on the train and she tells me her

heart is in my hands and mine

is beating because

her heart doesn’t look a damn thing like

a valentine. Instead it is this

horrible thing and purple and it

bleeds.  I know already that my hands are

not the right size for this fist apple (not

love) or if it were a bird it would be the

broken kind.

She doesn’t know that whatever it is she

wishes I would do I just can’t and what I

can (want to) do is climb inside of her

and lay my head down in the sticky dark.

I hate her eyes and love them, so ready

and she doesn’t know

that her face breaks my heart just a little bit

because I know that

my heart is beating, too,

because this is (not beautiful) one hell of a

misunderstanding.

10.10.11