Turning the Heart-Stone

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My feet inch towards you

with a heart veiled in chains—

bluish (no soft fade into yellow),

punctured, trembling.


Don’t you realise—

every moment my gaze brushes yours,

every breath turned over in synchronicity,

every murmured fragment of truth—


is me

laying my unravelling heart

into foreign, alien palms,

to be poked, squished, gutted?


Isn’t it enough, this offering?

But what if—


a home, a refuge,

a sanctified “safe space”—

dislocates its jaw,

a serpent’s den,

and engulfs my soul?


not once, not twice,

but woven through all lives,

memory-scorched…time-ruptured…


What then?

Who to blame

(when love

is the sheath of blades)?

Where to go?

How to carry on?

Why even bother?


Why do you blame a wilting sapling,

defenceless, motherless,

for oozing toxins

after an aphid army’s endless siege?


Why do you blame a country,

borders carved in betrayal,

enclosed by espionage,

for building an impenetrable fortress?


Yet this cursed heart thrums on…

in spite of lies leaking through ventricles—

ravenous for truth,

a moth devouring veil.


This heart

through an everted ribcage

of splintered bone,

this heart writhes free.

Good riddance — for them.

But by good (or evil) God,

how I’ve missed me.


No founts

of your maraschino-cherry love

could quench the thirst

of self-immolation.


But a creature staggering out

of midnight’s cave

is blinded by sunbeams—

even caresses are

felt as gashes

for flayed neurons, and

shadows are but

comforting lullabies.


Maybe it will take lifetimes

for the world to adjust its lens…

old cursed heart…

with barren cities

once called heaven,

and their antipodes

revealed—

heretics in priestly skin.


The underside is lighter

when you turn this

heart-stone around.


Do you hear

the hymn this heart wails?







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