I protect my heart
because I don't trust my sternum
to be man enough to take the impact
of circumstances such as car crashes,
or rejection, or crippling disappointment.
and if there's a pain to be felt
from never feeling vulnerable—
I've thought about it time and again,
but mostly I keep busy, feeding my heart
lemon meringue and poetry,
to distract it while I fortify the ramparts,
so I don't have to pay attention
to whether it hurts or frees me,
to make that first move,
that the stories say lead to a kiss
or a long-awaited confession
that's probably never been more
than a stupid pipe-dream anyway
that's made Hollywood trillions of dollars
selling false promises and popcorn,
and has made fools like me
embarrassed and dizzied on their loveseats
ignoring the sight of the vacant spot
in their peripherals by waking and baking,
over-polishing apples, and counting floorboards—
tuning in to old jazz and blues
to counter the dead quiet of the living room,
pinching sugar between their fingers
to counter the bitter taste of the coffee
that they ******* hate drinking,
but it gives them something to do,
something warm to cradle in their palms
when Fridays alone start to feel pathetic.
and while I make plans to hear a voice
or see a face that I miss, and let my hair
fall over my shoulders tangle-free,
polish up my smile, and freshen up my favorite jacket
with a shot of dragon's blood and sandalwood,
my shoes stay where I left them a week ago,
and I never follow through with that phone call.
I'm the protector of my heart,
because I know no one else
is looking out for it more than their own,
and it's worth the risk of being unkissed,
as long as my sternum stays whole,
and that small, red empire not left jaded,
and my pride still intact.
