My heart is whole
but it has sharp edges.
It got wet on my sleeve;
now, it hangs from my necklace
-round like a pendant; hurt hangs
round my neck with a vengeance:
like a lighthouse on a dark night,
blinding sailors. It’s offensive.
It draws them near like a siren's call,
but the sky bleeds red at the first sign of morning.
The captain is certain he'll lock land at dawn,
but does any siren ever sing a song without a warning?