if i twist my heart into a shape that will no longer be called a heart, 

it’ll still hold love for you, you know?

but i wish it won’t the next time i hear a song with a noticeable drum fill. 

would an orange still be called one if i paint it blue? 

perhaps, i’ll paint my organs into something i can love. 

skin is the largest organ,

it has three layers.

i’d keep my grief in the third, 

my love in the second, 

and the last empty. 

it will bear its own lungs and will not horripilate at the sight of you. 

it will feel my own to burn or tear.

my tongue into something i can’t bite, 

something that can taste nothingness when it’s not fed, 

something that doesn’t know you. 

a throat that doesn’t ache from cold words water 

and isn’t choked by wires and doesn’t fear letting go. 

lungs that aren’t tangled in the webs of implied breathing, 

that are let free, that soak up the misery, 

and grow flowers not wild. 

bitter things keep them alive, 

bitter like love & light.

eyes that can see what lies on the top 

and do not crave to reach it. 

they see the line between desire & fate. 

my blood is not an organ, but i’d knead it into one,

into a color that’s loved, that’s not too much

something round like a planet, not too big,

i just want it to be held, not too fragile, so that it doesn’t break.

i just don’t want it to be sad,

like my heart before it changed its color.