My heart is so big you could
cut it, knife and fork, and share it with the street.
Share. I share my skin, my soul, my shelter with another and they claim it as their own.
Then return it when it doesn’t quite fit right, isn’t what they’re after, change their mind.
Do they have the receipt? No because they said they liked it, how it looked on them, liked me, but they liked my mouth on their –
And now they’re eager to run for the hills.
I could have foreseen it, but I trust. I could prevent but can’t quite keep up.
Shame.
Not ashamed. It’s a shame but I won’t feel borrowed, used, guilty.
My body is a cathedral of opportunities and I’m not your fucking religion,
Close the door on your way out.
