I have heart failure, they say.
The muscle worn out.
They blame a virus, but I know the truth.
Misused, abused, it’s merely on strike.
Unwilling to be risked
On one more affair.
No longer to be worn upon my sleeve –
A blood red blossom,
Fraying at the edges.
Too many burnt offerings on the altar of love.
Too many poisoned daggers
Stabbed with an adoring hand.
Stricken with a disease – an old crone’s ills.
And me a young woman,
Still fertile, still ripe.
All the more bitter to swallow the pill.
Young flesh, old heart,
Dying inside a youthful shell.
How fitting instead – no life, no love.
Who ever said you couldn’t
Die of a broken heart?