It Happened Next Winter

Words served with mashed potatoes

If my heart was as soft as my skin, I wouldn't have made it past four years old.

My hearts made of leather and ash.

It's been that way ever since I can remember.

It doesn't break. It doesn't crack.

It gets fried to a crisp like a schnizel at a fancy restaurant in Vienna, and slowly heals back, give or take a few burns.

That loud snap you heard earlier, that earthquake-like ruble that ended with a thud; it wasn't my heart.

It wasn't my heart that broke, it was my ego.

And those don't matter.

But schzinels do.