I’ve drowned my heart

in bottles of booze

and kept it in old dusty boxes

full of schoolgirl memories.

I’ve locked it in the souls

of men incapable of loving

because I thought they could use it

better than I.

I’ve disowned it because it

proved that love was nothing more

than a game that lonely people

like to play.

I’ve pretended to lose it.

I’ve tried not to think of it.

But its slumber is up and

it’s knocking

and it’s pounding

and it’s screaming,

“Let me out!”

It's pleading with me;

acting like it needs my

permission.

And I can’t ignore it anymore

because that poor, little,

pathetic,

sad,

damaged

heart

is stronger than it looks

and it

has

pinned

me

to

the

ground.