Wednesday, April 24, 2013

i am loved by twelve hearts
roughly,
loved to the bone, loved to oblivion.
twelve hearts that ache to take on mine, twelve
hearts that want to know my ventricles as well as their own. 

i think my capillaries might not be as beautiful as
watercolor drippings.
when confronted with stress i
think of the pressure inside every 
morning and of the white hot
digging, the dragging, the fibers slowly giving way.

it piles up, it surges-
and i become a live wire.


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