And I. I too.
Quite collected at cocktail parties,
meanwhile in my head
I’m undergoing open-heart surgery.
The heart, poor fellow,
pounding on his little tin drum
with a faint death beat.
I don’t want to survive. I want to live.
A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.
My heart is an unmade bed;
it might look messy, but I swear
it’s a safe place to rest.
You think you know someone, but that person always changes, and you keep changing, too. I understood it suddenly, how that’s what being alive means. Our own invisible plates shifting inside of our bodies, beginning to align into the people we are going to become.