Glass Heart

Hearts are not elastic.

We feed them so near to bursting
that they become tender and distended

like the chimeras that gibber and crash withing them.

We can't expect the worn-down walls to regenerate
after all the contents are wrung out.

It's during this emptiness that the flesh burns down to glass.

Hearts are only malleable for so long

before the lit sand cools and stiffens.
They become fragile as bones;

tiny spiders hanging from taut wires,

a pumping fist held by spindles of thread.
Suspended like sparrows above an infinite abyss.

I can hear mine rattling against the walls of my chest,
sent bumping from rib to rib by every flash of teeth.

I hope you can't hear my glass heart clinking.