Heart-Shaped Bruise

the heart, that wound that never fades nor heals

Press, and the flesh will pulp and purple, ripen,
incarnadine as if to blush with shame,
show all the contours of its pain again—
old wound I put to bed, once more in flame,
rearing its ugly head, its flare of red,
as if it had a sovereign voice to scream
or were a mouth with one red cry to spread,
tearing this flesh of mine from seam to seam.
And yet I’ve known it since I’ve known myself—
this bruise the paradigm of one within
that bleeds—or weeps red tears—and chides itself,
beating a flagellating, roaring din:
the heart, that wound that never fades nor heals,
but ever pricks itself on what it feels.

—

I thought I would post this poem since it brings together some of the things I’ve talked about here—it’s a sonnet, and I wrote it after I wrote the Valentine’s Day essay, with that Nan Goldin image still in my head. Sometimes writing and reflecting on something in a more structured or logical way (like an essay) sparks something in me to write about it in verse instead. Drop a comment and let me know if you’d like to see more poetry in the future! xoxo Ramya