it wasn’t like that before,
the thorns on her bleeding heart were new.
he gave her roses,
she put them in her favourite vase,
but like all good things that made her feel special,
the flowers wilted too soon.
the petals formed patterns on the floor,
and the wind blew them away,
she wore her heart on her sleeve
and kept the arteries in her pocket.
when it was time to throw out the stems and the grungy water,
she got pin-pricks all over her,
stained her perfectly dry-cleaned shirt.
it was a tale as old as time,
as she tried to love someone worlds apart.
that’s how she ended up with a badly stung heart.
(The title worst-stung heart is from a prose piece by Mary Oliver in her book Upstream. Due to copyrights, I don’t know if I can include that here.)