Do the tears I cry fall to the floor?
No, they are buried inside
Burning, burning all hope of pain and sorrow
Until the keeper comes to make the bed
This cut doesn’t bleed, but laughs out loud
And I am left dead in the darkness
She touches my face and I hate her cold fingers
As they scratch little holes in my wall
She calls to him, and he walks with one eye on the side of his face
I reach to him but he is not there and neither is she
And the holes are actually my heart.
Copyright 2009 Meg Swensen