The Porcelain Heart and The Dry Hand, Feat. St. Valentine

the best place for a porcelain heart
is a warm dark pocket, cozy
safe from rose thorns, sharp jagged stems
a neck for a blush red head, safe from
that gasp of breath which feels last
in a line like powdery sugar
through the left nostril into rushing red streams
from that safe porcelain heart in a cozy pocket
sharing the space with a dry hand, also safe
from the laser red eyes of St. Valentine
Hallmark's assassin, paid for the kill
a hammer opposing the porcelain heart
pounding the chest, but only cracking a rib
and bruising a black lung, basically dead already
while the porcelain heart, cozy in a dark pocket
remains unshattered and in tact
reminding the dry hand of the days
when it didn't need lotion