You think you can hurt me but
don’t you see?
I’m not even there,
I’m not even there. I
don’t know where I am but
one of those times you were breaking my heart it
shattered
not into glass but into
feathers that are blown from place to
place born on a soft breeze or maybe a
gust of winter wind but
either way they are not
trapped in my chest that rises and falls too fast when
you walk into the room and step on
my love like it’s a
burnt out cigarette,
well-enjoyed but past it’s time.
And now I wish you could see I
lit it just for you and
nothing made me feel better than when
you smoked me and
treasured every exhale but then
nothing hurt so much as feeling you
lowering me from your lips and
dropping me to the ground and even that
wasn’t enough you had to
step on me too so I could
never be relit but yet
my friend, don’t you see?
My heart is not a cigarette,
it’s a hundred feathers
floating on the breeze.
-mm