Poem VIII: Beast of a Heart

My heartbeat is not a metronome.
It beats erratically
threatening to turn
my ribcage into dust.
My sternum fends itself with
a sorry sword hanging off
of the end of it,
for the xiphoid process can
only pierce what is within
and I am only broken dreams.
I suppose God is trying to
exhume the
grief out of my chest.
but it bleeds into my vessels,
fills the cartridges of my metacarpals
and no matter how much I
drain this ink
it still stains the melanin with sin.
I am not a saint but the pain
within will drive me insane.

 

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2 thoughts on “Poem VIII: Beast of a Heart

  1. To say this poem is beautiful is to do it a serious disservice. It is strikingly, terribly powerful. The sense of grief and pain permeating every part of you simply stopped me in my tracks and the way you describe yourself as ‘only broken dreams’ in utterly moving. Stunning work.

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