I carved out my heart once.
I didn’t die, I just stood there
Looking at it
Beating in the palm of my hand
Blood dripping through my fingers
It was red like you’d expect
But it didn’t feel like mine
So I held it out to you…all of you
You see this was never meant to be a love poem
This is a passion piece
Written in the spaces between stigmata,
I’m here to sacrifice myself for you…and me
I always wanted to be a preacher
At least on the weekends
Because that’s when God works right?
But one day my mother came home with blood on her hands
When I asked her why she said
She’d been trying to get hearts beating again and shocking them wasn’t working
It was a Tuesday.
My mother is a preacher.
She preaches with the soft voice of her eyes and the lines in her hands
But every night she brings back the rocks and the hard places with her
Like trophies of war
Some days she wins
Others she says she’s still fighting
I will never be a preacher
I do not have the strength for it
To carry anyone else’s demons like that
Now and then I dream of being a poet
It’s a sacrifice I can make
I carve out my heart night after night and I hold it out to you
Listen to it sing into a microphone as it drips words onto the stage
Every poem is a public execution
A crucifixion of demons
One day I might get rid of them all.
I carved out my heart once
I didn’t die I just stood there watching it
And to me it sounded