he tore out my heart
then tossed it back- still dripping,
with a 'sorry'.
as if
that made it okay.
magically fixed everything.
stitched the torn and broken thing
back into my frozen chest
and taught it again the art of beating.
if sorry always worked-
mankind would have no need for hell.
right now,
watching him walk away,
his hands in his pockets,
mine full of useless organ...
I believe in hell.
his 'sorry' lies at my feet
on the graying carpeted floor
indeed sorry
crumpled into a lopsided ball
like a dirty tissue
that bounced off the rim
of the solitary trash can
in the corner.
