three days after

my heart, this-
gilded thing with its
tiny wings and
pennies on its eyes
all rusted cogs
salt and the
perpetual crunch of
stamped metal.

my assembly line heart-
forged of patchwork pain
love and
death and
beginnings that end.
cold hands and
panicked looks.
aching.
breaking.

my frivolous heart-
all rosy murmurs
neon nights and
lips pressed to his shoulder.
intimately aware
of next moves,
next days,
next months.
stars in its eyes
in its hair
leaving behind
vapour trails.

my useless heart-
full up on hope
erratic and irresponsible
one, two,
three shots
that golden rush
that silver tongue
that backroom with its
concrete floors and
wicked echoes.

my heart, this-
cliche, this
indelible stain
this waste of body,
this waste of love
this gasp of air
this grasping throb
this vomit of words.

my heart, this-
boy, this
man, this
pointed ribcage, these
evening eyes and
endless smiles
these clenched jaws and
these faltering fingers
that won't hold mine.