Broken hearts don't exist, for the organ
cannot be snapped. It's a pulling kind, a motion
that wears out wrists and jaws. The rip
is the new break. A tear mark, like a dark
spot in an open chest cavity. Broken hearts
don't exist, as much as we'd like them to.
We've never been ones for stitchwork,
the slit is too small to work with. Our fangs
would do the job just fine,
but we've been warned. Eating our own
stupid hearts went fine until
we filled up. Floating and drunk
off wine from our living vessels.
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