My heart is a fist,

clenching and unclenched,

a steady percussion in the dark.

It doesn’t break… much,

it tears, it bruises, it swells,

sometimes it strains, it stiffens,

it knots up tight, a rope frayed.

It’s a pump,

forcing rivers through rusted pipes,

a boxer hammering at the ropes,

never waiting for the bell.

It stuttered, once,

but it didn’t stop.

It’s meat in motion,

tendon-tight and trembling,

a bird locked in my cage of ribs,

beating its wings against my bones.

Forget poetry.

The heart isn’t made of metaphors.

It’s muscle and blood,

A machine of work and wear,

never resting, it just wears out.