The candy red heart I wanted
came in a velvet box
wrapped with a satin bow.

I eagerly tore the ribbon away
and ran my fingers over the velvet,
reveling in the touch of something so delicate.

Tucking my mismatched,
***** fingernails under the lid,
I tore it open like a kid with a big Christmas present.

And what I found
could barely resemble the heart I wanted
for it was nothing more than a lump of bleeding muscle.

The blood’s leaking through the bottom of the box
and I’m not quite sure how I ignored it before,
but now it’s all over my hands and I don’t know what to do.

All I wanted was a second chance.
How foolish of me to believe it would be like a fairy tale,
in which my damaged soul can slowly put itself back together.

Instead all I got
is a blood-soaked box, sticky hands
and another kind of broken heart.

I thought it would work,
even though I kept telling myself
that this is was all a dream in my head.

I knew better than that, I know better,
but the hope filled me up anyways
and hell, it was great while it lasted.

But this heart is no good,
and just like the last one,
it has to be thrown away.

I have to dispose of the velvet box
and the grotesque thing that’s inside of it,
but I think I’ll keep the ribbon.

One little reminder,
so that even when the blood is washed from my hands,
I will always remember.