The heart
is a metronome,
slowly breaking under stress,
its tempo decreasing
in each instance
you find
a shorter pedestal
to stand on
in the corner of your mind.
Every time
my heart skips a beat,
I feel a stone
skip across
the ocean of despair
in my stomach,
sending ripples
and waves
across the surface.
This relates to
how tongues
tie my attention up
like a cherry stem
in rehearsed,
precise movements.
As affection
melts in my mouth
like ice,
caffeine and anthrax
slip their way
into my veins,
which are so withered
and tattered
on account of
my body’s systems
always working
so damn nervously.

Some days
I ponder
if the succubi
that occupy
my imagination
swim downstream
and hijack the abomination
that lies in my chest
and start banging on
the timpanis of hell,
concocting a clamoring,
chaotic trainwreck
of sound,
derailing
the orderly rhythm
my heart maintains.
After each avalanche of emotion
I am left to shiver
under a thin blanket
of the left brain
and hoard oxygen
in desperate lungs.
Hades tosses me
into the River Styx
derooting the
seeds of faith
planted in the
soot of my brain,
resurrecting
my muddy flow of consciousness.
His fingers cradle
my heart
and squeeze;
I feel in my chest
the crunch,
and I freeze.