There is a cage around my heart Made of rose thorns They do not touch the muscle That thrums fearfully in my chest But only because the proximity of the thorns Make it too frightened to swell as large as it could Or should I am afraid to breathe Or feel Too deeply For fear the thorns will lodge themselves inside my heart And never let go.
My daily life is a practice in moderation And careful measuring Of how much I can breathe Feel Speak My existence is a study in control And management How many breaths of ten does it take To slow the frantic beating of my anxious heart How many tapping fingers does it take To quell the urge to drive my nails into the soft skin of my arms Like the thorns that threaten the exhausted muscle I call my heart.
I am the product of war Waged on my home soil The forest has been burned to the ground Leaving nothing but stumps And burnt top soil And thorns There might be rosebuds somewhere Among the thorns But I am afraid to prune them away They dig into the bones of my ribs The top of my lungs It would hurt if I cut them away.
It is said that burnt soil is the most fertile But I donβt feel like Iβm being re-born I feel like I am nothing but burnt branches and scarred flesh and thorns If I clean and trim and prune them away There will be nothing left of me Nothing of who I once was Or who I might have become Sometimes I cannot feel my heart beat Beneath the cage of thorns I am afraid I might have died That my heart may have ceased to beat While I was too busy being afraid.