Platelet

I have iron deficiency from wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Doctors state that it is a con to the curse of reaching out heart-first -

the heart is the first thing to get hurt,

unable to heal from the Nicks

or regenerate from the Robs

too busy beating out reason

pulse by pulse,

shrugging off the stitches crossing over my ribcage

like a net thrown

o

v

e

r

a wild thing,

a torrent,

a bull in a china shop unafraid of being fragile, dancing on shrapnel,

muscle aching from reaching out for a partner to join in the chaos that is us,

to only grasp the bars of the cage

to tear apart

vein

by

vein

flutter

by

flutter

artery sharp,

bared to the elements,

waxing full

baiting Maybe’s to come and take a piece,

come, and watch me bleed for you.

This sweater was white

now its pink,

diluted red cells,

washed down in the rain,

wishing well broken

pennies down the drain,

flushed down the sink.

I have iron deficiency

from wearing my heart on my sleeve

articles of clothing

patchworked into your stories,

now a memory that wanders in your peripheral vision

when you light a candle,

when you hear church bells,

when you see a bird stay on the ground

even though their flock has left them.

You met me at a party

at a bar,

at the park,

in class,

at the red light,

our skin blushed from the light.

I have iron deficiency

from wearing my heart on my sleeve,

in the hopes that if you see how malleable my love is,

you will treat it right.