This is a different take on the poem I wrote yesterday, Glass Heart, which you can read here.
I have a heart that’s made of glass.
It’s fragile & always needs cleaning.
Many a woman has declared,
“I don’t clean windows!”
But I’m always cleaning and taking care
of my heart. Because I’ve always known
that it’s made from the most fragile of glass.
Like all fragile glass, the surface of my heart
has been smeared and covered with fingerprints
left behind from lovers who were attracted to
the rare beauty of the most purest of love,
one that can only come from a heart made of glass.
Those lovers who couldn’t stay, didn’t know how to
hold a tea-cup heart, one that is open and willing
to love as much as a heart made of glass can bear.
They were afraid it would break
and they’d be forced to try and put it back together
But I’ve learned how to wash away smears
so my heart of glass won’t get clogged up with memories
from the past. I protect my heart, knowing
it’s a work of art, a priceless Leonardo da Vinci painting
A heart that loves simply for the act of love
a heart that understands the value comes from
the simple act of love, love with no strings attached.
Love like this
invited voyeurs and poseurs who just want to
experience the phenomenon of the woman born with
the heart made of glass.
They try to break it, leave scrapes and
scratches across the surface, wondering
how it manages to hold up under all the pressure.
And when they move on, I continue to marvel
at the way my heart of glass stays strong. Always
ready to love one more time. Just one more time.
I will continue to sit in the window, watching and knowing.
I see you looking for me, always searching for me
in others. It’s the way it will always be
someone will always come and try to steal my heart of glass
wanting to displace it. The truth is
this heart belongs only to me. And I will always
take care of it after all the cheats and masked men have gone.
And I won’t waste time trying to understand
how loving could be done wrong, especially when it’s true.
I have stopped looking through the window, trying to find you.
On those days when memories overwhelm
and the glass surface of my heart becomes infected with
poison memories, I go find my window cleaner and wipe away
all traces of the presence of you from the surface of my heart.
I finally accept the truth: You can’t give a man Breakfast at Tiffany’s
when he’s looking for a pair of Jordan sneakers.
Peace & Love,