My hearts on my sleeve,
where everyone can see.
It's made of brittle glass,
please don't hurt me.

It's rather large,
and hard to miss.
It's easily won,
with barely a kiss.

I can try to cover it,
hide it under cloth.
But it's always there,
as longing as a moth.

It's easily broken,
and though it heals.
The scars are deep,
which pain it still feels.

Like a moth to flame,
follows love to the end.
Continually break,
and yet never to mend.