My heart doesn’t have to think.
It works on impulse: squeeze, relax.
It speeds up when I climb hills,
slow dances during sleep
until it’s hijacked, slewed by lust,
the chemicals of longing
swirling through its chambers.
Then it aches and clambers out
raw muscle stuck to my sleeve.
It risks snagging on a nail
or attracting a hungry dog.
I am scared. It palpitates.
I stuff it back behind my ribs,
give up on men, again, again.