It doesn't matter what words we use {so long as we speak}

A poem about how we often put love first when often times it should be us.

I smashed my heart with a hammer.

I dotted my mushroom 
skin with rouge
ink, like sketching the 
cut outs for a doll.
At first it hurt. The
pain was swelling, 
taking to the air 
like ravens to
a festering animal.

I placed the 
thumping organ underneath
a glass jar and
watched. I wanted to
remember it when I 
dreamt of 
him.
Just a bloody, throbbing
vessel with little use
besides tricking me.

I found the hammer
and twirled it in the air,
mystified by its
gracefulness

{the kind I lacked}.
Perhaps without my heart
I would become balanced
centered
proportioned
poised.

And that is how I killed my heart.

I sewed my chest together,
filling the empty space 
with sunflower petals 
and polaroids of
a girl with liquorice 
curls and torn pages
from my favourite books.

I don't see why the Tin man wanted one so badly. 
He can have mine instead.

Author's Note

Did the allusion to The Wizard of Oz fit into the poem? Did the images serve their purpose?

Reviews

[Dreamer]

Nicely written... mention of the Tin man was unexpected! what tied it in was the line "...torn pages from my favourite books." Fairytales are associated with childish innocence and by tearing these pages it sort of represents your destroyed innocence or naive out look on love. Thumbs up!!

[for my ♥]

...Love the part about the mushroom in the begining. yes it fit in remarkable...Amazing write.