The last time I left my heart to someone else’s devices,
it was divisive.
Split in two,
right down the middle,
in a painful, pristine pink line,
I left my inner child,
bleeding out,
on a beach, atop a mountain.
I smoked,
making circles out of the car window,
as I watched the waves turning her body to waste,
and I thought about how pretty he thought she must have been,
when I held back and kept her secrets to myself.
I had written his last name on my passport,
but it didn’t last much longer,
because broken girls are so beautiful,
until you realise how broken they truly are,
and then the scars are not so sweet,
so, of course, you leave.
I try not to think about the next exit (Might get ahead of myself and call it Jexit?),
and I try to think of that little girl and remember that she’s beautiful.
I try and remember that she doesn’t have to stay shadowed by her scars.
I could leave my heart alone again,
unguarded and unprotected,
trusting someone, as if that isn’t a mad and self destructive thing to do.
I could tell someone the truth,
and assume that it isn’t the exordium of an eruption,
just a conversation,
where the past is pushed aside,
and the child and I can breathe.
