the kettle

poem(?) rambles abt the feeling of dread that accompanies being vulnerable

my heart in a kettle,

i prepare it 

for you.

a feeling bubbles up inside.

it boils over, 

and it escapes

with a shrill whistle.

i pour my heart out

hoping that i might entice you

to taste it.



once you’ve tried it—

my heart,

would you still

want to taste more?

is it too much?

will you open the kettle,

pull it from the warmth,

behold its infirmities,

experience its softness,

and crush it,

before throwing it away?



i wonder myself. 

what might be the taste 

of a heart

that has already been steeped

before?

---

somewhat inspired by this depressing image i saw on pinterest >_<