Have you ever asked your god to make your heart
a little smaller?
Instead of giving you a space so big, that every time you cry you create
oceans of pain, pooled around your
bent knee.
A smaller heart would mean that, maybe,
every time a hand was clutched around it, the
blood would not ooze out, thickly, staining everything in reach; instead, it would delicately dance over an edge, disappearing into a small crevice, cleaning up quick.
A smaller heart would mean that, maybe,
when you feel, the feeling is not so deep that your senses are awash with the sound of a breaking,
but instead,
a quiet murmur
a seashell’s crooning
a whisper of wist.
Do you ever offer it up to him, mangled,
hoping that
this time
instead
maybe
when he hands it back
it will fit in one hand of yours
instead of the starry sky’s breadth
of his
and then
and then
the cracks will be too small
to be.