Sitting On The Top Shelf

I could never think of how to say,

You hold my heart in the palm of your hand.

It beats only for you,

With each throb more blood flows,

Past your fingers, running down your wrist,

Along your forearm,

To drip from your elbow to the ground in a crimson puddle.

I walk with an empty chest,

The hole attracting the stares of strangers,

Their eyes following me with pity.

I ignore them, hiding in shame,

Seeing nothing, Feeling nothing.

And then, out of the darkness you shine.

I feel your warmth surround me, engulfing me.

I bask in it, trying to soak up as much of it as I can.

You hold out my organ for me to take,

And I place in between my ribs in hope it may stay for a while.

The gaping wound I bear starts to heal.

"I love you."

But you'll never return the thought.

And when you leave, it's dark again.

You take back my heart and tuck it away,

On the top shelf in your bedroom, above your books,

Where it continues to beat,

Wishing to be back in me perminently,

Waiting for you to love me.