He took a knife,
And cut out his heart,
He kept it,
In the back of his closet.
Behind the disguise of life,
It kept beating,
Away,
Lonely.

He filled his chest,
with lies,
and norms,
and acceptables,
He still kept his heart, though,
It still beat,
He was never certain,
And he never really knew.

He almost thought he loved her,
He almost believed it,
But his heart
Did not beat for her,
It beat for something else,
It beat for forgiveness,
She would never give him that.

He took his heart out,
From the back of his closet,
It had gotten dusty and fragile,
From being hidden so long.
He almost hated it,
He almost believed it,
But he kept his heart,
Shriveled and blacked as it was,
He kept it.

He never really understood why it was there,
It was just,
A fact of life,
Fluttering at the edges of his mind.
It
Wouldn't
Stop,
He almost wished it would,
He wasn't sure if he believed it or not,
It scared him.

He never really lived,
He was never given the chance,
School and work and fake I love you's,
They were never really his,
They were all some one else,
He was in the back of a closet,
Barely beating.

He took it out again,
Out of the closet full of old clothes and long forgotten toys,
It was tearing at the seams,
and crying.
It cleaned it,
Touching it for the first time in years,
he sewed it shut,
And put it back in his chest,
He closed his eyes,
He never woke up,
It stopped,
Too infected by,
The lies,
To ever,
beat,
beat,
beat,
beat,
beat.

He was happy.