Too Much

The thing is

Perhaps this is cliché

But a handy back-pocket thought

A heart that has been previously used for exploratory purposes

Does not seem to take kindly to what could be perceived as even the smallest of

Threats

With the recognition of this

Reality

And where the fault of reaction lies

It will have a tendency to fold into itself

Away

When it finds itself opening wider than its function generally allows

To avoid the possibility of misconstrued intentions

Nevertheless

The clenching of anxiety

And immeasurable concrete of the belly

Still exists

Within hibernation of expression

It only tries to remain in its fully necessary solitary world long enough

To regain its wit

And a little bit of reason

So that it halts the destruction it may cause itself and others

Along its own flippant and paranoid path

By wandering into corners it should remain clear of

Try to forgive this heart when it is

Unruly

Overzealous

Nonsensical

Accusatory

It has a stutter

A stitch

Probably a disability

One that cannot be defined by logical means

Or acceptable behavior

And in no way diagnosed

Nor prescribed

But it knows that

So give it the credit of self-awareness

If nothing else

Even if actions can sometimes

Go uncontrolled

It never fails

It will always say it is

Sorry

In the end

Even when its toes are the toes being stepped on