Just realized I wasn’t blessed with surgical hands I’ve spent the past three weeks trying to extract, transfuse and resuscitate pieces and moments, promises and beginnings.
But I still end up with the same result.
A tattered, thin thread beyond its breaking point.
Scrubbed my hands clean,
I covered them in titanium gloves and painstakingly attempted the process over and over again,
only to end up with bloody hands and an exhausted soul.
My determination to recreate a heart that was picked and cut clean, that only held moments of
love- making and sweet words, intense passion and caresses was done in vain –
because all of those things stitched together only created a shell.
A fragile shell that covered emptiness and questions, pain and regret
A shell that cracked slowly over lonely nights and verbal frustration,.
Cracks that inched over and crumbled over gut-wrenching tears and sobs that
were periods at the end of run-on sentences of bullshit.
I looked down at the specimen that was once my heart; ripped, shredded worn
and caught a glimpse of me staring back.
Tears fell from my eyes and I expected it to wither into dust but it didn’t.
I lifted it into my hands and stroked it.
I kissed it and I said a million apologies in a language I never knew I spoke,
The language of Self Love.