Moth-eaten heart.

Each word,
each scene
leaves little holes
that permeate my pulse.

An uneven beat,
  broken percussion,
broken strings
  of a lost melody.

You keep on refilling it,
pouring in love,
staring in confusion
as it all leaks away.

  I haven't figured out
  how to make repairs.

I pretend that reflection
is a portal to a world where
all that matters is appearance.
 No one would see
 it inside me.

There'd only be
blue eyes and blonde hair.
It wouldn't matter
about my moth-eaten heart.

I imagine that music
has enough volume 
to drown out the sound 
of the torn drum 
that booms so softly.
 No one would hear
 it crying.

  I've only ever
  had a needle
  to prick at the wounds,
  never the thread
  to stitch them.