I’ve put my heart on a leash,
wrapped a dog’s collar around it.
I’m treating it as my pet.
I’ve left any gory bits of the organ
pumping blood from in my chest,
I’m trying to train what’s left;
the part made of a triangle with two lumps
that grows warm in the presence of emotion,
ballooning with the possibility of romance.
I’ve taught it to respond to my commands,
to stay or shrink or go away.
I’m thinking next I’ll teach it to fetch.
I’ve done my best to be a good master
but it requires such constant attention.
I’m sick of how it lingers at my feet;
it hovers above the ground and whimpers
begging me to justify its existence
until I yell or kick at it to get away.
I’ve thought of just putting it back,
to run free in the cavity of my ribcage.
I’m certain there it would be happy.
I’ve been weary of keeping it so close,
for if my heart were to ever break
I’m worried it would then explode.