the hearts i draw religiously on
my pale hand are always black.

it's a
vivid reminder of

and how i somehow love

the turns my brain
sends to my (near) stomach
area arise when i see
her round face and his
broad shoulders.

(and somehow i love this feeling)

though it makes me feel…different(ly)
and dirty with
grit and grim that stain my
(mothers) Christian morals.

but i can't bring myself to
wash these black hearts from my
sweaty-shaking palms.

it's a constant reminder of how
i must look inside.

(maybe i am the one worth leaving)