I think that if you were to look at my heart,
Not my mass of blood-pumping tissues and arteries,
But my real heart, the metaphorical, emotional one,
I believe you'd find a glass bowl
Delicate, thin, transparent and fragile
Carefully pumping not blood, but emotion
And as bowls and vases do, it would have an orifice on top
Into the hole are thrown little pebbles, bit stones, junk, debris
All the metaphorical cast-offs from real injuries
Cruel words and nasty deeds
Enter through the eyes and ears
And along the way from some sort of unwanted material
The larger the crime, the more serious the harm, the larger the stone
Thus it falls into my glass heart
Perhaps chipping an edge or cracking against the sides
And the added weight is a strain on the silicate walls
More and more pile in until it cracks
Let's out a squeal of shattering protest, and out pours
The hurt, the pain, the angst
Unless, some kind and gentle words,
The warmth of an embrace, a kiss, a murmur
Or strokes of encouragement and love come along
Patching up the little nicks and scratches
Pulling out a few of the stones, some new, some old,
And healing the scars that can't be seen