If your hand could

reach inside my heart,

what would you do with it?

Would you hold

it as you might

a newborn?

With all the

delicacy love

and care

in the world.

Would you

whisper to it

sweet nothings

as it fluttered?

Tell it how

strong and

golden it is,

how beautiful.

Would you rub

it as you might

a sore, aching

back?

Massage away

the pain of

grief and

betrayal.

Would you

kiss it tenderly

blood, tissue

and all?

Because you

just know a

restorative kiss

could save it.

Would you

shelter it

from the

world’s cruelness?

Create a fortress

of love and trust

around the too

delicate organ.

Or would you

treat it the

same as past

lovers?

As if it were

a toy and you

a badly behaved

toddler.

Would you

squeeze it

in clenched

fists?

If only to

see how

much it

could handle.

Would you

wring out

every last

drop of my love?

Fill it in a vial

labeled useless

juice and drink it

for the thrill.

Would you

poke and

prod as if

it was a lab rat?

Throw it into a

tangled maze

you knew it had no

chance of escaping.

Would you

dissect it

as if it were

an unlucky toad?

Pick it apart

so you could

see what makes

it tick so prettily.

Would you

tie it’s delicate

strings into

complicated knots?

Knots that

could only

possibly be

untied by their creator.

Even worse

to consider

would you

do both?

Love me

as fiercely

as you plan

to hurt me.

Would you

soothe old

wounds only

to create new ones?

Kiss and rub away

the scars others

created only to

leave your special mark.

Would you love

and hate me

in a tempest

of emotion?

Your hate the

hurricane and your

love the eye I

try to shelter in.

The truth is,

if your hand could

reach inside my heart,

I would be at your mercy.

That’s why

grubby fingers

never make it

past the cage

of my ribs.