My heart has been hung like a wet rag, twisted and wrung,
left out to dry until it is ultimately forgotten..
My heart has been suffocated, deprived of breath,
a gust that bursts the air out of a willing vessel.
My heart has been grazed by razor blades, light and fast,
but blood spewed and sputtered anyway until
You hold my heart, and I hold yours, too.
Mine is a river stone that shifts with the water,
but will never ever leave, and yours:
a snowflake on skin,
You say your love is not unconditional,
but it’s still the purest love I’ve ever known.
Sara Wetmore – once a nonfiction author, then a romance novelist, now a poet – seeks to savor authentic human connection and critique the systems that hinder it.