Patchwork Heart

When I was a child
I think I learned about magic
before I ever knew the existence of God.
With the spin of a hat
or a tug on a sleeve
you can make people believe in something
where there was nothing before.

In school,
They told us that the heart pumps blood
in order to keep us alive.
As a teen
I thought its only purpose was to break.
After some pubescent tragedy,
or whatever emotion of the week I felt
the pain would calm but
I couldn’t always find all the pieces.
That was how I learned to survive, and
it took me too long to stop running on pain.
So now I have a chest that looks so patched up,
so wound in gauze and white flags
you could swear you still hear the sounds of war in its pulse.

Sometimes, I put my hand to my chest
to remind myself that life still exists inside,

just like a deaf man puts his fingers to his throat,
to know that a voice still exists within him.
There are times I want to cut open my flesh,
see that fresh blood
to remember that somewhere under all the layers
a heart still beats.
Cause I don’t want to rely on magic anymore
to know that I am here.
I don’t want to have to look up in order to move ahead.
And I hope that if I want to fall forward
in love, head over heels,
that even if that boy pushes me away
so hard against the wall my body crumbles
at least I’ll know I still have tears.

So, if you want to reveal God to me
tell me about the music in a river stream,
show me a little girl’s smile when she blows away her first dandelion,
dance with me until our lungs burst.
But don’t hand me your scars and
don’t prove to me your wars because
we don’t need a god for that.
I think we all have enough battles to fight on our own.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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