The heart is a ****** metaphor for love
it is not a muscle
love,
cannot atrophy from lack of use

We collect bruises like badges
staying under water until
we become buried treasure
that someone, anyone will
want to find

When your teeth touch metal
and the bullet dissolves on your tongue,
standing on your own becomes a task
pushed off like last night’s ***** dishes

when the circus poster falls off the post
we rip it off, it becomes strips of a blank page,

I know puppets when I see them
I know when I’m the right shade of numb