My heart is not free
It beats in my chest, bruising and scarring me on the inside
My heart is not free
It draws me up from prone as though I was borne from the pages of a sketchbook.
It imagines more activity in these new arms and legs than they can hold.
My heart is not free
It pulls me in the night when the space between
(this heart and these walls)
is thin.
It pulls me to the outside walls of this house, as though magnetizing me to drywall and bricks.
My heart is not free
It beats
and beats
and beats me down,
trying to escape this ribcage and this house.
My heart is not free, but
it tears through my chest wall and then the drywall.
The bricks explode outward, trailing a useless cloud of dust.
My heart streaks across the night sky,
hot and red and bare,
and not free.
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