Is this it?

Am I losing my grasp?

Has my jealousy
given way to greed?

Can a frightened child
also be a dictator?

A hoarder of hearts
I often grab too tight

I feel their blood
trickle through crooked claws

yet still I hold them

for fleshy pulp
will not run

I know it will rot
but I'm tired of longing

The smell
like tar in my lungs

yet still
I've not learned

that pulp deteriorates
far quicker than can be stopped

perhaps these claws
will once again be kind.