Fix my self-broken heart.
My heart is broken over Him. But he didn’t break it.
I broke my own heart over
him. So fascinating–
and bittersweet that he is the only one I want to share all of
my thought-feelings with.
The heartbreaking cycle continues
May be that this is some
insight into my ‘habits’ and I daily
break my own heart
in my sub-average life.
I’m going to need someone to assist in the mending of my own heart.
Someone re-wire my heart.
Take the needle and thread and stitch it back together again.
Leaving no scar.
Or, if a scar is inevitable, make it tiny.
A tiny scar. I don’t want to look at a big one.
Nothing with a face. Nothing big enough to take a shape.
Nothing to remind me of how easy it is to rip out the tight threads and let myself
all over the floor.
like a river. like a fountain. like the Old Faithful I am not.
except in the timing of my own demise
out come the stitches. the thread of a new hue is stained with my blood.
I prefer to see that. because it is pain made visible. A pain I see and forget