My Heart is On My Sleeve

She said, “Brenden, you wear
Your heart on your sleeve too much.
If you do that, then it’s bound to
Break before you know it”
Is my heart on my sleeve?
I think so; where else would I have it?

I wouldn’t have it in some
Dirty kitchen drawer
Sitting with some rusty knife,
The same rusty knife
That a love interest put in my back.
No ma’am, my heart’s too good for that.

I wouldn’t have it bound to a pole,
Panting in the smoldering summer,
And barking at every beautiful breeze
That walks, runs, or blows by.
No ma’am, my heart’s too good for that.

I wouldn’t have it restrained
To an old, decrepit tree,
Beating, bleeding, bruised,
Where vultures can peck at it
For the rest of my infinity,
Only to heal everyday and
Be pecked at some more.
No ma’am, my heart’s too good for that.

My heart is on my sleeve
Because there,
I’m in complete control of it.

I choose to whom I give it
And from whom I take it.
I choose where it goes
And where it stays.

I want my heart to spread from my sleeve
And seep into every aspect of my life.
I want it to sing the songs, write the words
Help the hopeless, inspire the imaginative,
Ignite that incendiary spark of
Euphoric life itself.

I want it to feel embarrassed when
It tells a crush how it feels,
And I want it to feel relief because
It finally got it off its chest.
I want it to get that weird look
Whenever it overacts and overreacts.
I want it to run from the
Scariest unknown “What if?”
And, fly or die, I want it
To jump into the wings
Of “At least I tried.”

I want it to be out it the open
For the entire world to see.
I don’t care if
They agree with it or not.
I just want them to know it’s there.
I’ll hear 'em say,
“Hey. That kid has heart.”
To which I’ll respond,
“I know. It’s on my sleeve.”