The chest is a coffin, cradling shards of a broken heart,
Too heavy to carry, too shattered to restart.
It once wept rivers for you, drowning in its own tide,
But the brain scoffed—"Fool, let the ocean run dry."
The heart still carves your name into its aching walls,
A prisoner of love, bound by rusted chains that never fall.
"You are hollow," the heart cries in disdain,
"Love escapes you—you lust in vain.
You're frail, mere desire guides your way,
I knew roses had thorns, yet I plucked them with bare hands,
Let them sink deep, let them bleed, let them brand.
And when the wounds screamed, I kissed them shut,
Sewing my pain with threads of dusk.
Every bone hums with the echoes of losing you,
Every ligament, every tendon—ghost limbs reaching through.
Yet the heart, made of muscle, does nothing but break—
It does not heal, it only loves, hates, and aches.
This poem portrays the heart as both a coffin and a prisoner—trapped in the grief of lost love, carrying the weight of unhealed wounds. It explores the contrast between love and desire, showing how one can give their all, even when the other person is incapable of true affection. The imagery of thorns, scars, and ghostly echoes reflects the lingering pain that never truly fades. In the end, the heart does not heal; it only remembers, aches, and endures.
