we always blame the heart for things gone wrong— as if trusting logic with all you have would have stopped a few cuts from bleeding on to your tongue. because the heart is never in agreement — always raging, always reeling , always wanting. starving and incompetent and maddened. i think my heart is a lot like dirt. i don’t think it’s some fragment of any rose that you must press against the insides of your mouth softly and try not to chew on. i think my heart loves by burying itself underneath the soles of feet and hiding underneath fingernails and falling asleep on the insides of clenched fist. i think my heart is a wild thing —- and of all the things i am not proud of, of all the things i am quick to lie about in desperate attempt to convince you that i am polish — this one, i will never hide from you. my heart is dirt. i will tell you in whispers in dark rooms while we both play somber and hold on to each other’s fingernails like the world itself is tipping over. my heart is dirt. i will tell you in moans with legs locked in sin and skin swallowing each other from the inside out. i refuse to love like our pavements aren’t filled with cracks and our bones are not filled with ghosts and our tongues holding on to sweet lies spoon fed by old lovers. i fall in love stupidly —- tripping over my own tongue, slapping words on to your chest and immediately trying to steal them back in your sleep. i fall in love savagely —- studying your flaws and licking your wounds. i fall in love without excuses and i break and i split and i die in it and grow from fresh cuts.