To Touch My Own Heart
When I sleep I bury my fists
under the ledge of my ribs.
One day I will be so empty
I will be able to reach far enough
up into myself to grasp my heart.
When I hold it, feel its slow
contractions, will I finally find
myself? Will I tighten my grip?
Or will I cradle it gently, a dove
in my palm, a precious thing?
And if it is so truly precious,
how will I fight the urge to rip it out,
to dissect it, to study it in the light,
silenced and stilled and ruined?
How, when I know I am so brutal?