but. she's just a waitress.

like sitting quietly by, and watching a small child deconstruct its favorite toy.
this.

this right here.

this was what it felt like to witness my still pumping heart, in your hands.



small blue chairs that were never, really, big enough. preschool tables still stained with glitter and glue; torn construction paper and broken crayons. you and i, and a lot of what keeps me breathing at night.

you dont even notice me sitting here, watching you; misplacing arteries and setting aside ventricles.
i am your project at hand, & momentarily, i suppose nothing else really even exists.


i should probably speak up; save myself but.

well you just seem so content, taking this muscle apart, piece by piece. simplifying a soul that was at one point, a whole mess of selfish love, childish confusion and idealistic hope. now just, weakened beats, slow receiving and releasing of my bodies blood flow, & every failed romance leaking through causing a mess you'll never remember to clean up, even years later.

months later.



across from you my eyes flutter, just slightly, as you study the four different chambers, placed so strategically on each side. you rotate it in your palm, thinking hard.
i wonder what it is, you see.

what it is, really, that you want so badly. from me.



the thing is, though, i cannot object to this dissection of my existence.
and as you thumb the atria and think seriously about slicing through to my septum, i attempt to move my fingers. show you that yes, i am still here.
regardless of your unconscious destruction; well, the thing is, i still love you.

and it was yours, to begin with.
to do with, what you pleased. right?


you cant ask someone not to return a shirt, that fit too tight; not if it was a gift.
not if you just want them to be happy.



i lay my head on the table, finally and you look up to say.
"you know, the aortic and pulmonary valves? they control what leaves the heart."




so have i left your heart?