Today I broke someone's heart.
I've been chiselling this pulsestar for weeks,
trying to dislodge myself from the curved corners
of your infinite love. For fissures, would-be chasms,
cracks and places where you might have wedged me in
and my fingers stiff red from these desperate searches
for the weaknesses in you consisting of me.
You might think that the weakness in me
consists of you - but that's not true.
It consists of flesh and lungs, cell and tissue
layered to the infinites of fallen creation's complexity.
I am my own weakness, I am the bullet holes
waiting to happen in my own armour.
Not wanting you to suffer such endlessness,
I have been trying to pry myself from the deep beaten places
that you have treasured me to.
I only wanted an extraction, not a combustion.
But it seems I am an arsonist,
not a surgeon.