I've housed rusted Iron soldiers in my fragile little heart. Full of scorn, they lashed at my wounds and laughed at my words, petty, broken, unhealed. They never stayed.
I've safely caged fire breathing dragons in my fragile little heart. A menacing trouble, my sleepless nights always ends in tear-soaked pillows and wet eyelashes. Where do I go when I am awake? For sleep too isn't peaceful anymore.
I've braced cancerous people and mortal fire, in my fragile little heart. They alight my deepest scars and make me know that I am not enough. They've stayed in the crevices that I've far forgotten. They've come alive like raging thunder, ready to devour anything that comes in their way.
I've seen the darkest of summers and the brightest of nights, I've seen my heart break, heard it crack, smelt it burn. I've held all my ambitions in a corner long dusted. I've stayed with myself when even my wilted flowers haven't.
I blame my little heart a tad bit more than its supposed to be done so, I've let it grow, heal and fall apart too many times. But as I sit under the fading horizon, I whisper a little sermon to my little heart, for it's seen, felt, and done too long, my fragile little heart, it's done too much now.
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