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My Heart

My heart is locked in a damp, dark basement.
I check my pockets to make sure I have the key sometimes,
and sigh in relief.
I have boxes from my childhood down there but my heart sits
alone.
I don’t remember what I kept and it doesn’t matter but
my heart is locked in a cardboard box
under the stairs.
I use to keep it in the closet but a woman once asked me
about it, I lied and she knew.
She left me the next day.
I moved it to the basement after that, and in a dripping dust-filled dungeon
it stays.
Sometimes I have dreams that it’s stolen and I wake up in a sweat.
I rush down stairs
in a shuffled mess
and there it is, alone under the stairs.

My heart is locked in a damp, dark basement.
The box is falling apart and the cardboard is frayed from the leaking cracks of rain.
I open it sometimes and check its pulse,
it beats slow and constant,
content in its solace of silence.

My heart is locked in a dark basement like a ragdoll dream,
like a lover awaiting the savior,
like Maid Marian.

Sometimes when I get drunk I put it in and write with its voice,
but it brings me to tears.
Sometimes when I get drunk I put it in and rip the house apart in a
rage of flames and fire.
The next day i awake in a mess of emotions and go back down to the basement
and lock it back up in its cardboard box.

My heart is locked in a damp, dark basement
and only I have
the key.
Sometimes I put it in and fall asleep with it.

Those nights are filled with the most beautifully beating dreams.
But I awake
aching, and alone.

I go back down to the basement and put it away
and try to remember to keep it there

under the stairs.
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