where the sternum meets the clavicle,
i want you to rip it apart like a wishbone,
when you hold the larger part, and you
will because i've never learned to keep
the heart at bay – i want you to make
a wish and keep it secret. in time, the
blood will wash off your hands, and
the maggots will have cleaned my
wounds. the sadness sits just under
flesh, waiting to be excised with a
surgeon’s touch. i thought wrongly
of you – the ends of your fingertips
elicits poetry, it wasn’t mean to
clench a scalpel. the onus should
not be on you, anyway. when my
lungs struggle to exhale, i think
about my eyes swallowing the
drooping stars in the night sky
once more, and heave, making
room to breathe as shallow
as it is. the sorrow is ordinary,
so why does it torment me so?
