I tell people I’m broken,
traumatized and terrified
of trysts with troublesome
feelings that fill me, fill me
fill me with butterflies
that paint pretty lies
all over the walls of my
beating broken heart.

The truth is that I am afraid
because every time I gave my heart away
it got thrown back in my face
and now I’m left here clutching
a hunk of ****** throbbing muscle
like, “What the **** do I do with this?”

If this is the thanks I get
for loving people but also
loving myself then you can take your
stupid holiday and shove it.
Because I want no part in
an ideal that says I have to
love people that hurt me.

Just because I’ll cut people out
faster than I cut out this **** heart
doesn’t make me cold or frigid.

All my apprehension,
all the distance I create,
all my reluctance to feel
the things I used to feel so freely,
that’s just walls.

I built walls to watch
as nobody tried to break them down,
as I ran away from letting people
get close enough to want to.

I’m holding out for the best,
the person that doesn’t make me
want to run anymore.
The person that takes TNT
to my walls and says,
"Let me love you,
you stubborn *******.”

I don’t know where they are,
I don’t know who they are,
the only things I can be certain of are
their existence and the fact that
they will find me.