I would eat my own heart if I could,
and spit parts into a glass locket
so everyone could see inside

me, the breast split open and
pumping. I would eat my own heart
if I could feel its pulse on my lips,

have the red rouge paint beauty
where there was only white before.
These veins that **** compulsively

for something that was stolen, airy
and pleading. I would eat my
own heart if it’d make me feel full.