My heart, baby briar of a sweet little kernel.

Strong oak.

I used to write poems filled with tortured verses of unrequited love,

of violence in my home and extreme penance and punishment.

My young heart ached because I let myself smoke weed and be fucked

and have these desires.

What was there all along?

My heart is a bird, she has sung her song, deep in the caverns and caves

and wonders of who I am.

Sometimes I yelled at her from my mind window,

‘Hey you, shut the fuck up!’

Sometimes I have laid my head down and marveled at her throaty notes.

There have been others who have rested on my chest and taken comfort in

her tune.

There have been others who told her to play another way,

to come in lower while they came in high.

Either way, she has sung and sung and sung.

She is getting louder, or quieter.

I can’t tell, maybe I am the one placing my hands there,

tender and kind,

not with permission, not with allowance, but with sacred bowing.

I and she pulse in the beats.