Breastbone
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I placed my hand against my chest, and gently pulled away; My shirt came with, it tore from me, and floated gently away. I placed my hand against my skin and gently lifted it, and cut away a hand shaped space over the space of my heart.
I placed my hand against my breast and gently sunk within; and bone took form around my hand and gently held it in, holding still that terrible thing that was tearing me apart. I pushed and pulled and gently bored but I could not reach my heart.
I sat and breathed and tried to leave this claustrophobic form. I try to believe but I can't perceive any goodness of my heart. Is it my hand or my breastbone that is tearing me apart? Is it my hand or my breastbone that keeps me from my heart?
If my hand could close around the beating heart within, Would I finally know if I have goodness within? If my hand could grapple with the pumping muscle within, Would my heart be torn from it's place keeping love in?
If my chest were to calcify, to mummify my hand, would strangers look upon me and think it a justified end? A man who dared to look upon where love makes it's home, and saved by his breastbone, from what he lacks in spine.
But one hand remains, feverishly I take it, and I begin to pry, To slip and pull and rip and grip, unconsciously I began to cry. I will take apart, the body parts, and grants entry to my goal. I reach within, I slip right in, to the space inside my soul. So focused on, knowing what was within, I fold in space and then, a little pop, and like an origami god, it is as if I have never been.
So afraid was I, of loving wrong, of soiling the world, I never let myself touch the ground, I never let love out.