Moth-Eaten Heart

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.