I’ve got this pounding, beating, screaming thing.
Some call it a heart, I think.
But I’ve got an inkling
That its just a lump of blood and muscle.
Chambers of tissue
That keep it all flowing.

Some say that I should be
Feeling some pain in there
Right about now, right at the moment
That you drop my wrist
And leave muddy tracks on my bones,
My white glittery bones,
As you sashay to the exit.

But, see, I did something wise
Something ever so clever.
I took that beating thing,
And put it in a pickle jar,
And I stuffed in shreds of paper
From one of those crispy day planners with the inspirational quotes in the margins
And made a little nest for the lump.

Now it sits in pleasant monotony,
Muffled in absorbent security.
So my glittery bones and I,
We clatter along,
The jar under our arm,
And wonder what you mean when you ask,
“What’s with the jar?”