Thinking about giving you the chance
to take my heart, break it apart,
crumple it like garlic—

two halves, two fists,
while my love
would still exist.

Just finally aware its
reciprocation was an illusion,
it spinning around in a cycle with—

what? Your admiration? How I
would love perfection—
life without risk of losing

worth people always treat me like I’ve
earned. When how am I to tell?
If you’ve graciousness or its crumpled shell,

when, I know, I’m so shiny. Circled around all
my hollowness, its current shape from me having
molded myself around all of the people I’ve lost.

first published in Blood+Honey