This heart of mine,
It's just a glass jar full of tissue paper butterflies,
It flutters from place to place and finds easy homes in another's collarbones,
Never has the phrase " be still my beating heart " resonated at a holier frequency with me,
This was supposed to be a question,
Not some " diary of a tortured artist " explanation,
Not a poetic confession, or whatever it's become,
I just wanted to know that if I was to listen,
I'd still hear the 8o8 beat of my broken heartbeat,
Because all my heart is,
Is just a glass jar full of tissue paper butterflies.