O, my tender heart keeps beating
Though I would it were retreating
While a forced smile you’re entreating
Me with pained and partial meaning.
Many were the days spent grieving;
Many nights dreamt of bereaving
You—not that I’ve been deceiving
You—your heart has long been leaving.
You. My Montressor, my handsome loon,
You, darling cruel, yet rob the tomb
Where, though it were walled off so soon
Yet echoes with a pulsing swoon.
These are things I dare not utter—
My poor heart! How it does stutter!
Sputter! I meant it does sputter!
Shapeless, vuln’rable, like butter.
O, would that I were gleaning
Rays of sun and days of cleaning
My soiled soul, ‘stead of repeating
It is me my heart is beating.
By Kendalle Fiasco, 2013