Copper Heart

I encapsulate too much love. 

I feel through monarch wings. 

I promise things in perennial bubbles of blue and green dish soap.

And if I truly love you, those promises never go away. 

Even though those same suds dribbled out of your mouth, they were diluted. 

My words of admiration to you were lasting.

They are the peanut butter I can’t get off of my tongue, but I eat anyways even though I hate plain peanut butter.

My words are the hope for something pure in a person that has slowly fizzled out but has never dissolved completely.

That hope can be burdening.

Hand me a hundred spears, but give me a rose along with them and the flower is the only thing that will catch my eye.

You can take everything from me, drain the blood from my veins until every limb is left strung inside with empty sandpaper tunnels.

Dry and cracked, but far from broken. 

I’m an ecosystem, codependent. 

I believe that my love will go to waste on me, and that it will be put to better use on someone else. 

Some of the puzzle pieces with your face have gone under the carpet, or through the vacuum. 

But I need to learn to replace them with my own.

How am I supposed to be the sun when I am eternally craving the missing moon?

Every beam of light is unearthing their shadow. 

But I’m here standing still.

And the world is revolving around me, but going in the opposite direction. 

Why am I only two poison ivy leaves? 

I have eons worth of copper heart and copper soul to give, but it is always passed up for a metal less dented.