I could take up arms and defend
your affections,
were I fit for service.

you beg the question,
Because she took your hand in hers and sighed
against your shoulder – you ask her
“How many hearts did you break before me?”
and when she’s confused and asks you the same,
wondering why it even matters, you respond
“You don’t want to know.”

But the question she was really asking, was why you
treat girls as if their hearts and bodies are dirty for falling in love
more than once.
As if that’s a choice. As if it’s shameful for wanting
to love and be loved.
For reciprocating these opportunities of mutuality.

Your disappointment ebbs away at my confidence
with every petty remark, thrown
because of the left foot I drag behind me
and the weight I carry, bruised and battered

but
even so
every now and then my heart
stirs – so violently, with hope

overturning blood in each chamber.
That someday someone will
find me whole,

just as I am.