I had something like a heart
until you asked to borrow it
and I had known myself as whole
before you broke me, into atoms.

(unintentionally, you say –
yet the result is still the same.
I am reeling, freely bleeding
with no-one but myself to blame.)

I had a life of black and white
and never knew that wasn’t enough
until you showed me technicolour
rainbows, and a pot of gold.

(well: two-tone would have done
born blind, you do not miss the light
I’m none the richer for leprechaun coins,
or colours a mirage in the sky.)

I had a mind that was stable and easy
until I realised what I’d been missing
until my soul bumped into its own mirror image
and refused any attempt at reason.

(of course it would: why stop?
like a long hot shower in winter;
like a massage from caring hands, after;
no-one else would hold back, either).

I had a body that belonged elsewhere
until everything else made me curious
until the lines were blurred beyond all recognition
and the culmination only too obvious.

(until you, I was mostly me,
and probably could have been, forever.
unintentionally, you say, and anyway;
too late to begin to regret it.)

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