There was always this box hidden under his bed.

One day he fled, and she crawled,
slicing it out from curtains of webs
and wrenched it out of the hands of his secrets.

Inside she discovered her heart, raw
from when he last yanked it out from her.
Veins, nerves unattached
to fool her from feeling,
to engrave his own illusions  into her head.

Now she’s cradling it so tenderly.
Rinsing off his fingerprints with her tears.
Occasionally learning how to ***** it back in.