My second heart itches but I can’t scratch it.
One heart on the outside, one on the in and
both are sore; none can be eased. I dig my
nails into my breasts, praying for relief and
sometimes I find it: pressure, tequila, cuts,
men, smiles, fire, poetry, ears, Pilates and
pride. My body healed with love. I have had
three hearts, all tattooed in my blood and
still they are not enough for all the love I have.
I am deep but I don’t make you think.
I make you think but I am not deep.
I am forgetting what you said.
I am Maya Angelou-ing it all and
remembering only how you made me feel.
You have no idea how much I wish I could
stop writing poetry about you. I hate you.