Member-only story
The Art of Self-Preservation
A poem
My heart grew calluses
so the rose-petal tissue
wouldn’t wilt in my chest.
I’ve heard it’s best to just be vulnerable,
that my rose-heart will rebloom.
Worse-case scenario,
I could dig myself up,
plant myself somewhere else,
but I kept finding myself too deep
in north-facing lawns,
not enough morning sun,
water pooling at my roots
after every rain.
At a young age,
I trained the muscles in my face
to freeze so my smile
wouldn’t be misleading.
Permanent scowl, lips only upturn in a smirk
when I need to be on my prettiest behavior.
My blood learned how to clot
so I wouldn’t bleed out
before eyes that look right through me.
They never knew ghosts have vitals too.
When I met him, my heart smoothed over,
I uprooted myself,
so I could make a home in his garden,
let my blood un-clot itself just a little.
