Monsters

My heart is a very deep, unfinished well and at the end, if it ends, is a vividly rusted, old penny I threw in when I was about 7 or so. That was the first time I felt so profoundly weak; I was livid at someone or tired of life or maybe just a little lonesome. I was so desperate for some ounce of consistency that I entrusted my faith to something worth as much as I felt.

Maybe I should’ve dove in after it but I know I would drown in a smog of thick emotions I threw away for a bad day, or maybe just to ruin a good day. I would break my neck on the floor or things too hard to say.

I’ve never conquered the thick horde of molasses-filled pain rotting at the end, if it ends.

My heart is either a half empty grave or a flamboyant crater that somehow feels unfinished. Now-a-days I am simply a torn pocket seam for which tiny things barrel through, manifest into thoughts, and snore when they hibernate.

I am here today.

This poem is about: 
Me

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