She ripped her heart out with her hands
And threw it on the ground;
Then stomped on it
To show she didn’t care
For men – she’d wanted one – were pigs;
And she would not be hurt.
Without a heart
She thought that she’d be there
Her skin, though soft like velvet crush,
Encased a calloused soul;
The blisters of
A happiness denied
So she would play the game, as well.
She’d never show her cards:
The truth, was now
An object to deride
She’d never chase that lie again.
Her body was her tool:
The one who called
The shots, who she would be —
These days, she rips out other hearts,
And makes it her delight;
And now, she is
Most happy — isn’t she?
To be honest, I’ve known people, men and women, like that. But I never thought they were very happy. Great poem though!
This is an amazing and original poem – really loved it :O) x
A tortured and embittered soul it seems. No, not happy!
Wow!! This one spoke to me. The way it transformed from beginning to end, the story it held, the emotions. Simply brilliant!