She stands in front
In a neat jumper
Wedding bands on manicured hands
Holding a paper heart.

“This is your love.
Each time you have sex,
You give a piece away.”

She begins tearing.
Ripping until
There’s just a piece

She says,
“Keep it up, and
There’ll be nothing left
Of you.”


I have torn my heart to shreds
Time and again
With passion
With desire
With love.


My heart
Is not made of paper
It is not finite, frail and  broken.


My heart
Is as expansive,
Encompassing and whole
As when I was 13,
In love with a boy
With melting chocolate brown eyes
Who I never once kissed.


How dare she
That there is less of me.

How dare she
That the act of loving
Could ever make us into smaller
Less worthy
Human beings.

How dare she.


This entry was posted in creative, love, personal, Poem, sex, women and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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