Dust & Powder

My lonely heart has been broken
too many times to count.

It sits in a box high upon a shelf,
with stitches and bandaids.

Collecting dust as I wait
for someone to mend it.

This lonely heart, barely beating.

Years pass and the dust layers
untouched, undisturbed, no one notices, no one cares.

It's left to mend itself,
an impossible task to conqure myself.
For I am: weak, unwilling and scared.

I am afraid that my heart will crumble,
and powder is what it will become.