My heart has been hung like a wet rag, twisted and wrung,
left out to dry until it is ultimately forgotten..
My heart has been suffocated, deprived of breath,
a gust that bursts the air out of a willing vessel.
My heart has been grazed by razor blades, light and fast,
but blood spewed and sputtered anyway until
one day,
it stopped.
You hold my heart, and I hold yours, too.
Mine is a river stone that shifts with the water,
but will never ever leave, and yours:
a snowflake on skin,
singularly magnificent,
but delicate
and impermanent.
You say your love is not unconditional,
but it’s still the purest love I’ve ever known.
Sara Wetmore – once a nonfiction author, then a romance novelist, now a poet – seeks to savor authentic human connection and critique the systems that hinder it.
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