the nights are lonely
now that the god of small death has choked on his own heart
the red faced dog watched it happen with his black beady eyes
they hooked him up with some kind of cosmic ventilator to force breaths into his empty lungs
because if he were to die then no human would ever feel carnal pleasure that was born out of love
the nurse tending to him sang lullabies until her vocal cords burst open
they tried to stitch them back but she had lost her voice
she would never be able to sing again is what they told her
so she tore at the threads that kept her throat shut
and died with red cadence flowing out of her
the goddess paid her husband a visit, looked at his purple skin, his blue nails, his yellow eyes and held his swollen hand that dripped disgusting fluids all over her dainty fingers
she could see the lining of his ribs, could count the bones in his hand but couldn't trace the outline of his heart
she knew he was dead the moment she looked at his chest
they never put his heart back there
so now it was hollow
and if the god of small death died without a heart in his chest
then how can the human heart, as they claim it to be, full of love?
how can anyone ever feel whole when the goddess herself sliced her own heart into two?
YOU ARE READING
B R E A T H E
Poetry❝ I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. ❞ - Sylvia Plath Just a collection of all the words that breathe inside of me. Completed: 12 April 2021
