What if a heart were made of chewing gum
and the leftover clippings from bird wings
tied together with frayed ****** seat belts
surrounding a core of fake diamond earrings.
There's a song out there written about me
and over fifty-seven poems written by me,
although not one of them encompasses the longing I have
to stare into the mirror and love myself from root to tip
like a tree that's grown on the side of a cliff.
You said extended metaphors seem to be "my thing."
I say home is a song my Vovo would sing,
"Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be."
It went on to talk about the future,
but I haven't gotten that far yet.
My discount heart
will keep pumping.