Eggshell Heart

Day after day you pick at your heart like an eggshell
or the way a vulture might pick at roadkill,
peeling back the membrane, the layers, the skin.
Feel this, you instruct it,
pinching its fleshy softness between your nails.
Feel that, you say,
pointing to the bird lying dead on your lawn.
You press your thumb into its sides
until it bruises purple –
watching the color bloom
violent under your fingers.
You tell it to ache.
You tell it to throb.
You tell it to do
its goddamn job.

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11 thoughts on “Eggshell Heart

  1. Just do your damn job! wow loved this piece oh how we push ourselves over the edge just to get our frail hearts and emotions to just work the way we want. Love the description in this piece as well took me to a visual place of sorts.

  2. when the heart turns traitor
    and leads me down perilous paths
    offering no return for the effort
    one needs to discard
    the map and choose a new path

    oh heart
    when will you ever learn
    the map
    is not the territory

Thoughts? I love those.

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