organ bruises

Maybe if I paint my heart upon my cheek,

Someone won’t wipe it away with a careless touch,

Leaving smears of red when they leave.

I could sew it into the pocket of my jacket

Hoping no one throws the clothing into the flame,

Acting like nothing was sacrificed in the process

Hiding the organ is no option.

Who would I be without my heart?

A doll, a husk. Something hollow

But wearing it on my sleeve is tiring,

It gets bruised and beaten often

Until it’s bleeding and the flesh is mutilated

And I stand on trial, battered devotion in hand

Proclaiming to the jury my innocence

The prosecutors counter that I should have hidden my heart

To prevent the abuse of my affection

“It’s my fault, after all.”

I know nothing other than offering myself up

To those who would make a mockery

Of the altar I shed myself upon,

And then I wonder why I’m drained,

Depleted, and ruination rendered incarnate.

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