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i don’t remember deliberately hiding my heart in its barbwire cage. i don’t remember whether this was a deliberate or necessary act. i don’t remember its state at the time of encasing: a fragile flower. a tiny mirror ball. a flickering flame. a handful of fireflies. i know it was alive and needed safety, after the nights in the dark and the hands and the terror. i don’t remember when the cage began to unravel or when the heart outgrew it, pushing outwards so the barbs tore the muscle walls, leaving scars as they released the light. the rusted wire embedded in the flesh like shrapnel. pulsating in my chest- a bizarre metamorphosis, real time evolution. i don’t remember exactly when some bad company pried the remaining pieces with southern comfort, gin and peach shnapps out on the hills after midnight with a brand of vulnerable masculinity that thrived on bleeding hearts. unclenched fists letting go. gentle breaths on tiny fires. i don’t remember passing it around too much after that, exposed and hungry for love. i don’t remember what they did to it or what it did to them, the girls and women in my life. i would hope they danced in its light and felt the warmth from the flames they fanned, but there’s no doubt they choked on the metal pieces now rooted in flesh. i don’t remember it falling a sleep or waking back up. i don’t remember how it became this way or what to call it now. sometimes when i lay real still i can hear it beating irregularly in my chest. what’s asking for, i’m still not sure.