#writeblpoe

It’s not pretty, this heart of mine. Not an altar. Not a shrine. It’s a heart-shaped coffin, nailed shut with old regrets and lined with the velvet of things I can’t forget.

It should be still by now. It should be dust. It has carried the dead weight of a thousand goodbyes, housed ghosts in its chambers, swallowed the dark whole.

But somewhere in the silence, beneath the rot and the rust, a stubborn percussion a dull, stubborn thud.

It’s not a song. It’s a fight. A fist against the lid. A refusal of the quiet. A beat that says I carried this, I carry this still, and I am not done.

So let the flowers wilt. Let the mourners leave. This coffin heart still has a pulse. It is not a relic. It is a weapon, beating on.