You didn’t know what you were doing
and I think that was the worst part,
the fact that you just threw her heart
right away without even taking
the time
to break it first.

That’s it I guess–just that
you didn’t know and that
you didn’t break her heart
not because you loved her too much,
but because you didn’t want to feel the guilt
so instead you flattened out her breath and built
an airplane out of her lungs to fly
her heart to her
so she could break it herself,
alone in the dark
with a box full of tissues
a text to her mom
7 unanswered calls
and a silver hammer
for good measure.

You didn’t know,
you didn’t know what you’d done.
You thought maybe you both had won
because you both got sent your hearts
still intact
but you were wrong.
It doesn’t work like that.

Her lungs
were creased by your hands,
remember?
made sharp by your distinct ability
to see her vital oxygenation
as an art project,
just some ancient origami solution
to make pain look pretty.

Sharp lungs
biting breaths–
they pierced the heart
that sat on them;
it shattered the moment she lifted it
from their folded wings,
the ones that could still
feel your touch
on their edges.

You sent her her heart in the mail.
You didn’t break it you
didn’t even
break it.
Do you think that’s love?