Sometimes I wish my heart
would grow white columns
and hanging plants

that when broken
it would develop into
something delicious and sinful
and mouthwatering;
like crushed sugar.

I see you
passing your fingers
over its worn edges
or looking for it
in tea cups
as a child would
some dropped
piece of biscuit.

I see you
throwing it, like books,
into the fire
until it smelled
like woodsmoke
and ashes. Until
the fire scorched
your hands.

and I wish then
my heart was like
books rescued from fire
and lipstick-printed
gifted before
love’s farewell
well loved,
well hated.

its original color
washed-out, its edges
and its texture
ragged, wrinkled,
and moth-eaten.

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