bursting at the seams from being
used far past its capacity.
My heart does not beat
it has not beat for years,
instead knocks on my ribcage
like a person trap on the inside demanding to be let out.
My heart is no longer at heart,
it's now been locked box with four separate compartments,
a unread book,
a wax sealed envelope,
something that sits on the shelf and collects dust.
This is the such thing I call a heart,
a muscle and my body imposter syndrome.
People often common I keep my feelings bottled up,
my heart is that bottle,
a masterpiece for several other bottles, shards of different color glass,
each piece made and forced to fit,
to make something new
in hopes of somehow making me feel whole.
Instead, I feel like a museum,
a room is what used to be,
a green room, something to be projected on,
a letter lost at sea in this little glass bottle.
My heart is no longer a heart, but a storage used past capacity.
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