Before you,
I was convinced
that a heart is just an organ
located between the lungs
and slightly to the left,
that its only purpose
is to pump blood to your circulatory system
and to keep you alive—
that a heart cannot physically be shattered,
like a glass vase
being knocked off of a table
or a mirror
when a fist is shoved through it
in a fit of betrayal infused rage,
or that a heart cannot be broken
unless born with a certain defect or
shaken by a violent attack
of the internal or external type,
or that it cannot be given or taken
unless under a bright light on a table
connected to cold, unfeeling machines
that do not care
whether you make it out alive or not—
a heart beats like a steady drum
as a reminder that there is never complete silence,
a heart does not feel—
pain, sadness, happiness, or elation—
I did not believe in love or any of the palaver surrounding it
until you took a hold of mine
and made me realize how wrong I was
by demolishing it right in front of me.
