A Collection of Personal Poems and Lyrical Laments

A Retelling of My Past Heartbreaks

My heart is a brittle thing

It sways and swoons over anything willing to pay my 25 cent admission fee

So, I've learned to be careful with it

There was the abuser, who is the one that made it go from a beating and thriving organ to something as thin and easily destroyed as the leaves that cover the autumn streets

There was the user, who gave my heart a pillow while his hips thrusted me through alternate dimensions, but that was all he wanted; someone to be his pillow princess

There was the cheater, who swore that he didn't have anyone else and kept me warm and happy on the weekends... little did I know, he had his own corner of affection that, to this day, doesn't accept that the one she says 'I love you' to found his forbidden solace in the beds of every girl willing to fall for his poison tongue

There was the trio, who lied, manipulated, and yelled just enough to make my ice-thin rose petals weak and terrified of even temporarily blooming for anyone

There was the boy, who trusted me enough to love me, but didn't love me enough to trust me

And now there's the bird, who looks at my heart and says everything will be okay

He says that he loves me and one day I'll meet him

That I'll be able to run my fingers through his feathers and cry for all of the years I waited for him

But what if he isn't the one I want? What if I stop loving him? What if he finds all of my skeletons and poems and hates every thorn and vine that wraps around my chest?

What if he doesn't? 

Can I handle being loved?

All I've known is twisted poison laced with honey and cinnamon, so what if I drink from his fountain and taste something new?

I don't know if I can survive my heart going through another downsize, but the barbs around it make it hard to grow, too

What if he's another type of poison?

The kind that takes fifteen years to kill you; an almost cancerous blend of not happy enough, but not hurt enough

What if I waste my life with him, only to find that I hate the feeling of his hands gliding across my hips?

Maybe next week, I'll find an answer

But this week...

This week, I'll ignore the new ropes coiling around me

They don't have thorns yet, but give it time

They always weasel their way into my core and this time...

This time I kind of hope they do.

~Ty