All those heart metaphors
I wore my heart on my sleeve for you.
I spilled my guts.
I put my spleen on my shoulder
Was that helpful?
I draped my lungs over my ears,
Put my liver in the upturned cuff
Of my trousers,
Wore my pancreas on my wrist.
Do I make sense now?
Can you read my entrails?
Is the hollow place under my ribs
Do you need to see all my bones?
Is honesty the exposed inner workings
Or was it the mysterious whole?
Where’s the true layer?
What should we dig down to?
I put my heart on my sleeve for you.
Just offal and mess, it turns out
And not much good at all.
(I may be going to do a run of these, exploring ideas around romance and dismantling them in whatever way occurs to me at the time. Especially what we’re supposed to do with hearts – which discernibly work better on the inside.)