When I was a child,
I stashed my heart in a lockbox because my father told me
"one day, someone's going to steal it."
Let me tell you,
a lockbox is not an ideal hiding spot
and I know this because I kept it there for so long, I forgot where I put the key,
the thump and rattle of my heart in its box,
telling tales of neglect.
Later on,
I stashed a few more things in there:
My quirks, my stories;
And eventually it got so full that it started to leak at the seams and rip at the brim,
the toss and turn of the abyss.
My mom liked to tell me I was built to be like a lockbox:
Solid and sturdy,
strong.
Yet I don't want to be a lockbox.
I want to be a dream, have a theme, be cohesive and clean, but its getting harder to trust the artist molding me when everything is just going so wrong.
The fingers are jumpy because they've been burnt too many times,
the eyes are rusting because they've lost their spark and shine,
the hands are calloused and tired because they've sewn together so many breaks that they've run out of time to look inward and sew back themselves.
I guess my sewing needle is somewhere in the lockbox.
Under the bandages,
over the thread,
and next to my heart
placed there so long ago.
YOU ARE READING
Half English / Half Cynicism
Poetrythis is a collection of my original poetry, and I hope you enjoy. I explore the themes of belonging, LGBTQ+, longing, and loss. Thank you for giving my writing a read and a chance :).
