a poem a day for a year #184

by Amy Turn Sharp


I’m currently collecting stories of broken hearts. I take them by the bagful. I pay upon publication in soft wet kisses through the computer screen. I need stories, so send them. Sad ones. Bad ones. All the pieces. I’ve been commissioned to construct a myth. I will attempt to make magic and the words will coalesce into a giant scar that I will paint on your body while you are sleeping.
While you are innocent and most beautiful.

So send them. Wrap them in comet tails or push them out windows. Pull off all your clothes and let them drop on the floor. Rip them from your body. They will find me. But they make come back, self-addressed or not. Sometimes broken hearts limp through the desert. Sometimes broken hearts crawl. Miles to go. Just to find the chest cavity where they belong.