I have learnt the pain of too much tenderness, of ingratitude, of impatience. The pain that comes when you can't identify the material of the casket, you kept a gifted heart in. I though it was love, that preserved your misshapen, scarred *****. But was it sympathy, inlaid with gratitude, For three words uttered (though falsely)? But I returned yours unharmed, when you requested it. No gashes from harsh words only salve, from caring hands- though the wound's wouldn't heal.
I don't know what you kept my heart in. A bag of lust, tied with pride? Cheaply made, so when it tore, you sent my heart back, raw, unprotected. At least I left you with sympathy.