Your Heartbreak
No one else is having your heartbreak.
Your perfect pulsing peach
in scarlet syrup,
your creamy self
pitying.
Not even when the whole world
is stacked like chairs
and you are milky-eyed
with sleep, honey, chocolate,
blues before bedtime.
Right here, where your hand is,
all yours. A beautiful, bleeding,
sprouting red roses,
picked in two halves
from the heartbreak tree,
heartbreak.
It is your prize, you’ve earned it,
heaved it up
from the wishing well
of your throat,
held its broken body,
treasured it, fed it with tears
the size of cupcakes
and nights like shining spoons.
No one else is having your heartbreak.
Or the way it makes the sound of horses’ hooves
if you hold a piece in either hand
and bang it together like a coconut.