Day 57 of 100 Poems/100 Days

Breastbone

They kidnapped me,
held me down,
feet kicking,
me screaming,
they split me open,
right down the middle,
saying, “your heart is counterfeit”;
not the engine that drives the tide,
not the one God set beating.

But still in disbelief, I resist,
my fingers turn into fists,
I beat them,
and I kill them.

I close my ribs back up,
but find something missing,
a lightness, a hollow, a gap,
the bones hold only themselves.

I run back to the ghost trees,
to their leaves swaying,
and crawl inside my treehouse,
praying I can still find the memory.

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