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.