What I Do With My Heart (Poem)

I stand in the middle of the field.

The morning sky above is clear and unclouded,

With the grass still wet from dew

And the birdsong playing from the trees.

I raise my hand above my head

To offer to the warming sun this:

My heart torn from my chest, bloodied and beating still.

Here, I give this freely,

Rather than have it wrenched against my will.

I say this with a scream. Or is it a whisper?

I open my fingers and release it.

It falls to the ground and rests there trembling.

I turn and walk away, not looking back.

It will be carrion for the flesh eaters

And even its decaying stench will dissipate.

No regret, this is what happens.

(What? Were you expecting it to transform into a bird

And fly away?)