You gently touch my chest

And hold my heart with your eyes.

You pick past all of my ribs,

Then you yank it away

Slowly. Cruelly. Painfully.

You never minded getting your hands dirty

Now they are tainted, stained crimson.

It was simple for you to wash away

The color of me on your hands.

I was hollowed out inside but now

I’ve stitched myself back up

With a silver needle and golden thread.

I’m modernly heartless and,

Honestly, you can keep it.

Truly, I don’t want it back

Because it throbs constantly

To your foreign rhythm

And I’ve learned an ample amount

From merely staying empty.