I was built for breaking hearts.
My sinewy legs ideal for running
long distances, never stopping
lest they freeze: quicksand
lurks in other peoples’ beds.
My eyes are magnets, tinged
green with just the right balance
of gracious malady; nurses love me,
though I explain contagion to them.
I speak with fig jam on my tongue.
Nurses never hear the words,
only yearn for sickly sweetness.
Weren’t we taught about cooties
at the handball court?

I should retreat to a cave
but even bionic men have ticking
hearts, even Robocop, all gears,
motor oils, hydraulic joints,
still does drive-by’s when he sleeps.
We androids will never know
where our guts reside, so we search
in life lines of strangers’ palms,
tracing them with our cold fingers,
searching for the software path
to reprogram our restlessness.

I was built for breaking hearts.
My chest is warm & kind,
not mine, a transplant given
to me with immigration papers
& hand-me-down pajama pants.
My curls are traps, rose bushes
built to ensnare a passerby
who had just stopped for a sniff.
I don’t reveal myself to god either
I couldn’t survive
the weight of his love.

I was built for shucking blossoms.
I don’t want them in my room
but I’ll be damned if their pollen
sticks to the tendrils of insects,
so I carefully pluck tender petals
(she loves me not, she loves me not)
deposit them in a compost pile
at my feet: maybe with time
the ground will darken, fertile,
& I will grow my own plants.
Not blossoms. Not daisies.
Pitcher plants & Venus fly traps,
wound tight, ready to snap shut.

I was built for breaking hearts:
I was broken when I built
my first pedestal & placed you
on it, dear blossom, not even
shouting distance away.
The clouds took you. I stopped
looking to the heavens.
I even forgot to cry.