There's a hole in my chest,
Carved from sad, broad hands
Attached to thin wrists
That are my own.

All day and night it bemoans
Its very existence,
Its marred, pulpy edges
Because it never asked to be made.

In fact all my life I've been forbade
Of making holes, told they're voids
One cannot fill -
Better left for the lonely people.

And yet I thought a steeple
Or a plot of dirt, a flower ***
Was all the space needed
To feel whole.

So I dole
Myself one, only
To realize my mistake
Rather belatedly.