This mangled heart cannot be mine,
the race of electricity snapped between veins:
And raised scars throb and intertwine.
Midnight swatches of pain can’t outshine
the lift and twirl of moonlight beyond the window pane.
This mangled heart cannot be mine.
Even in a peek of spring, where ice neglects its design,
arteries shake and blame is gained
as raised scars throb and intertwine.
An aching release and bruised aorta tow the line
between healing and abstaining:
this mangled heart cannot be mine.
And where beginnings have no ends to try,
where tears can’t outpour the rain,
these raised scars throb and intertwine.
I’ve faltered and fallen, scraped knees and twisted my spine
into shapes unknown and warped with pain:
This mangled heart will not be mine,
anywhere these raised scars have throbbed and intertwined.
