the heart is a bloody kind of organ

how many times has it been uttered?
'but i loved you...'
the trail end of the sentence
renders you a flailing sparrow,
wings clipped and broken neck.
oh little bird, nervously picking apart
the past year, week,
the last night you
curled into his curves--
your heart is not a fortress,
impregnable and stone;
it beats faster at his touch,
it's bloody valves pumping
deep within your chest.
what else is there to say?
you mumble into the sheets
of the cruel night,
breathing in
the lover who left you like crumpled bones.