She Might Not Make It
___________________
| |
| my heart |
|___________________|
The bitter taste of resentment
spews out of my mouth
as I finish handcrafting
my own personal armor.
I drag what pieces are left
of my pathetic little heart
through the mud
to some form of safety.
Leaking saltwater,
I search for high ground,
somewhere I can construct
an untouchable depository.
Calloused by the only one
I’d ever give it to,
I tend to my organ,
bulletproof vest in tow,
like a nurse mending
gruesome battle wounds.
4
2
2