On paper, you are all wrong.
The list is long that describes your faults.
On paper, you are not right, at all.
The adjectives are many that paint you negatively.

But with one drag from your cigarette,
and a grin, cloaked by your black and grey whiskers,
I forget.

When my name flows out of your mouth,
even in the plainest of tones,
I forget.

The long list, the one that I always turn to,
and try to convince myself out of this,
vanishes.

I swim in a sweet, sublime pool of bliss.
I feel love for you, in the simplest of ways.
I love you.  Simply and purely.
List or not.

How to prepare a broken heart:

For this recipe you will need to acquire,
one human heart, and pound it out flat,
blood, eight pints to ten, and boil over fire,
four months of tears should provide for the salt,
add the better part of a soul, a few good intentions,
and pinch of "it's all your fault"

now add your hopes, and add your dreams,
ground up a little warmth and some smiles,
and sprinkle it all with a dash of defeat.
disrespect, shake and repeat.

mangle, beat, and crush with your feet.
tear open your chest,
**** it all inside, right under your breast.
heat at "Hell" for as long as it takes.
baste with fear and loneliness for the time that it bakes.

you won't know when its done; it doesn't come with a timer.
Just be patient; let the torture unfold.
when all of your faith in the world has receded,
and your bright eyes go dead and defeated,
when your childish view of the world grows old,
your dish will be ready - best if served cold.

I have my heart open like a winter morning, like his birthday gift
wrapped in brown paper bags
clutching at the shreds
as if loving me more will make me less sad. It has not:
see, my bones shatter like icicles,
I am weak. His affection melts like snowflakes on my tongue.

I want to taste him until the flesh pares
and someone can finally take me to the hospital where we kissed
have a glance of what’s intact,
better, what isn’t.

It has been December every day since I last visited you, Doc
but you have good eyes – can watch hell freeze in
my chest. The calendar says July, but my body doesn’t believe it
possessed from memories of a woman
retching in this very room here, behind a screen
you saw my boyfriend naked and behind your back I kissed him.

He will not say that sorrow is eating my heart out,
nor have my veins been cut by scissors –
that does not mean that he is not thinking it. See me cold and blue.

you always loved yourself more
than you could ever love me
it's pronouced made-lin, not made-line.