His cardboard box of a heart learned how to beat,
It was all so foriegn,
He asked himself how it was possible that something dead had managed to breath,
The dust that had pilled on took a long time to clear,
He struggled,
Somedays it was almost too much,
He would try to hold it still, to force it to stop,
He rarely succeeded,
And even when he did...it was too short lived to be called a success,
His chest had been numb ever since he could remember,
He taught himself to smoke,
He found the warmth his heart couldn't provide through the burn his lungs never asked for,
He's been wasting away for too long he forget what it felt like to be a whole,
So he remained a ghost beneath his skin with lies for a pulse,
He is a self made man,
He disposed of people as much as he did things...perhaps even more,
And so when this pink flesh told him it would no longer do his bidding,
He was on uncharted territory,
He dare not call it love,
He has chewed up and spat out that word for reasons he will not admit to himself,
It is always easier that way,
His cardboard box of a heart learned how to beat,
It was all so foriegn,
He asked himself how it was possible that something dead had managed to breath,
He dare not call it love so he remains without an answer,
He had long since sealed his tongue with a promise,
Perhaps one day he'll learn to speak.
