it is the disturbed that write the best
because they are lit from within
by an itchy glow,
a humming deep inside each muscle
that seems to cause the heart to grind
itself to the walls of the chest
trying to squeeze its way through the bars
just to free itself.
to where, my heart?
you think that you will find a life less bitter
facing it without a mind as foil?
a hermit crab without a shell
is just a pair of dirty claws.
to where, once you amputate yourself;
when you cut yourself free
and leap out my throat, or
starve yourself to a gamey rag
and slip between my ribs –
to where, icarus?