Beating, pacing
thumping like a drummer with no rhythm
and no purpose other than to hurt.

Once candy box red,
now black like tar
and twisted and scratched
until it is no longer the muscle it used to be.

It pounds and thunders
in ways I wish I couldn’t feel
because these beats don’t give me butterflies
they give me disease,
they give me panic and fear and
a horrific feeling of, “Please Don’t Hurt Me Again”.

I didn’t ask for this,
this broken thing you gave me,
this abomination of an *****
that calls itself a heart
but only wishes it was something so beautiful,
so excuse me for not having the receipt
but please, please, let me exchange it.

Give me something that’s candy box red,
something that isn’t riddled with scars
and beats in a way that hurts but
in the best way possible, the way that
breathes life into everything I do
and not the kind that burns.

I’m not asking for much,
maybe just a second chance
a do-over, to feel again
and be okay if it doesn’t last.

I don’t want to be afraid
to the point where thinking about trying
makes my filthy heart stop.