Scorpions and Love Letters

I never longed to hear him call me
'Dear Heart' as if he wrote love letters
to his own, bloody mass of an organ
that beat up a rhythm between my
bruised yet sturdy, castle ribs.

Anonymous scribbles,
itching between the stitching
of a patchwork Frankenstein.

As I will never give it up to the poet
with the sloppy tongue-
ugly verses dripping from his lips
like a love sick plague
leaving me hollow;
a soulless shell seeking escape.

I'll never love him.

This Scorpion heart is mine.

Covered in barbed wire,
It stings and it cries—
but it rips and it tears
and it bites.—