Our hearts appear as glass,
fragile and unmendable
But yet they are sponges,
who absorb our cruel desires.

They sit captive in our chest absorbing
slowly and inconsistently,
they poison themselves with the eloquent feelings,
and sear as our impulsive emotions retract.

They nestle deep into crevices,
inaudibly
and burrow even deeper,
existing behind our fabricated worlds.

Our sponges swelter under pressure,
as we ingest lilac and fuschia,
and are concealed in an oceans of emotion.
They are able to capture infinity,
but yet lack
a security system.

They refuse grow, venomous spikes,
and deny their right color themselves into absence.
Instead they unveil their vibrant truths
and welcome puce as a friend.

But sometimes, our sponges leak.

They leak because of the crimson,
that they mistook as coral.

They leak because they soak,
more than they can uphold.

But mostly,
they leak because of the scarlet that contracts on them,
after they embraced it’s vile ways.

And when our sponges leak,
they don’t,


drip

and


mist
and





shower,
they collapse into a


sleeting,
hailing,
monsoon of beryl hues.





They surge on creams
and auburns
and mahoganies alike,
until we are left gasping in crushing waves,
and have completed our flailing
descent.

But each time they become engulfed in these drowning shades,
and are drained of their lustered blush
they become,
just that much harder to squeeze...