Everything about this feels inevitable.
I scribble poems down like a madwoman,
and that's how I know this must be love.
Infatuation always gets stuck on my tongue,
and lust just buries me.

See, I've read accounts of women who died of literal broken hearts
and wondered why the sternum isn't the strongest bone in the body
and whether it is our hearts are truly made of elastic or glass --
but mine just beats out of time whenever you brush up against me.

It's the oldest story in the world.
It's the only story I know how to tell.