I have dissolved into The composite minerals of my body - There is nothing left but a damp pile of calcium and carbon, Maybe a little iron where my liver used to be.
You will not find the lump that was my heart - I cut it out a long time ago. I keep its shell on my desk - It holds paperclips, elastics, a backless diamond earring
I’m waiting to evaporate and blow away - My dust isn’t worth sweeping. The people who say they love me tromp through it on the way To their own destruction.
It’s easier to be a desolate pile on a filthy floor Than to live and breathe and feel my Hollow heartspace heave itself forward. It doesn’t know any better, but I do
I don’t live there anymore.
Kendra Whitfield lives and writes on the southern edge of the northern boreal forest. When not writing, she can be found basking in sunbeams on the back deck or swimming laps at the local pool. Her poetry appears in The Raven Review, The Rye Whiskey Review and in the anthology, We Were Not Alone (Community Building Art Works, November, 2021).