Wickability

I know your secret, and it's safe with me until the moment you don't feel safe in my arms. That's why farms can't grow without love or hormones, and those hormones make Mother Earth moan as her gender is transmorphosed; but maybe she prefers being a man, perhaps the Native Americans were just heterosexist. I guess it's a difficult notion to believe that FATHER Earth could love MANkind. But when I look into the ocean that's the last thing on my mind. Because the waves lap up my ilk like a cat's tongue laps up milk, 'til my high hopes and my heartbreaks are one of a kind. Synonymous, androgynous, transcending human frailty. It leads me to the idea that just maybe, if we flip that master switch to close our eyes and open our hearts we can finally experience humanity. That's insanity, though. A standard issue heart is already too dark for one to discern the writing on the poorly papered and tattered walls. Four ventricles with the mysteries of life stored inside. Pure darkness, wrapped up and freeze dried, hybridized by the internal genocide that conceals the troubled, scarred bits of a frail muscle that never regenerates even though it's the organ most susceptible to pain. Human interaction never has a happy ending, so it's pointless to aspire to something beyond superficiality. Triviality of the heart, that's the meaning from the start. Some people are just too innocent to realize it. So here is my heart, broken and bare. You claim to be a seamstress of cupidity, then fix me. Your needle has never encountered such an impermeable fabric as this. Two of its chambers are so rapt with scars that you'll never find the words you're searching for. One is so dimly lit that I can barely read anything that might prompt me to self-discovery. And the last, it's still occupied by the ghosts of past lovers who've conveniently covered those magic words in derogatory terms that I feel like I deserved. Do your worst with your seam ripper; leave my heart threadbare, the very fiber of my being in front of you like a tire swing. If you push it away, you know it will come back, but like all the others, you inevitably tire of such a childish novelty. Go ahead. Leave. Someone else might come and use me. I'm just waiting for that one person who, with a divining rod and the most childlike innocence, can find my hidden well of humanity. Who, with a shovel and determination, will toil over my barren ground. Perspiration dripping and percolating into my own wealth of water. And when they reach the cusp of my unending supply of love, they will strike with all their might against the door to my gushing heart. The words I've yearned to say since I was crafted by that stardust so long ago will spring forth: "I love you" I'll attempt to whisper; but having been so long without attention it will come out as a scream. Shaking the pain from the atmosphere, the war from humanity, the dust from your tired bones as you leap into me. This time you won't leave. You can't. you're much too special and you've come this far. You'll only drink my love with undying gratitude for your quenched thirst, and that gratitude will be reciprocated as you will have quenched mine. My swollen muscle will be relieved of its constant throbbing, the pressure of finding requited love gone, and all I will be able to do is feel you occupy the same space as you. Melt into my matter. Take your steady hand and fix the shoddy patches applied by all the others. Back stitch over the weak and yielding thread. Stuff me with love and cotton. Add on if you'd like, fill me with pieces of yourself you don't feel that you'll miss. The mother of my love, or perhaps the father, I won't make the same mistake as my predecessors.