Your Heart Was My Home Until You Handed Me An Eviction Notice

by Amanda Bower

I removed the layers of blankets from my aching bones

to excavate the secrets that were held together by saliva

in papier-mâché envelopes, only to chew on disappointments

and lie on shards of fragile stained glass that tampered with my flaws,

instead of putting me back together with multicolored duct tape

so gray was only found inside of my body.

I wrung the tears from your sweatshirt and decided it was time

to give it back to you, in exchange for my serpent heart

[barely beating,

barely breathing];

instead of curling inside your stomach and making you

nearly as ill as I had become, just by drinking venomous nectar

and digesting fireflies so a small portion of me would feel alive,

I climbed over your picket fence and let you recline my eyes

in another awkward position to the point where I only chain-smoked

the main exhibits of your aesthetic proportions and declined

every deficiency of the person you truly are,

i. blunt