Yes, I suppose it's true:
someday my prince will come,
hatchet in hand, blood
of previously hacked
hearts on his sleeves;
and I will endure it.

When his axe sinks
into my innocent, still-beating organ
and he pries it from my breast,
sliming his fingers,
I will endure it.

He will leave me lying, sprawled,
on the dirt road, gasping
while he deposits his newly-acquired
heart into his leather satchel --
but I will endure it.

As he strolls into the sunset
alone, swinging his bag
of bludgeoned hearts, I will think
I should have held out
for the highwayman. For this
I will, in those last seconds,
not forgive myself.

But, oh, I will endure it.