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Beats of a Pocket

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She carried her heart in her pocket-
Not on her sleeve.
It was safer hidden away,
Tucked deep out of anyone’s reach
And even if someone tried to grab it-
Squeeze it and keep it for their own,
She’d step in another direction,
Continuing on her lonesome way.
Safe, it was-
Protected by a padded wall,
Her heart was
Scarred countless times-
Having appeared to be scribbled on by a white crayon-
Scribbled on by all those stupid, insecure souls-
Or maybe…
Is it her that is insecure?
Her that is stupid?
For who else would carry their heart in their pocket?
It had been there once-
Naively on her sleeve-
Taking line after line of that white crayon
Just waiting…
Waiting for that cliché knight to claim it as his own,
Yet he never showed up-
The villains kept on coming.
There was only so much her fragile heart could bare;
Only so many pokes and stabs
Before its beat began to wear,
Began to slow to whispery thumbs-
So quiet that no one would care to listen.
And so, with a sea of tears,
She unhooked her heart from her sleeve
And stuffed it in her pocket-
Safe from the claws and white crayons-
Reserved for a true knight to come
And rescue it…
She carried her heart in her pocket…
Not on her sleeve.

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