twenty-six degrees farenheit

i keep my heart in an ice box.
i only thaw it when the winter comes,
because i need something to keep me warm.
it's filled with memories of old and friends and loves,
it's wrapped in childhood memories to keep it preserved.
people have tried to hold it,
but eventualy the ice stings their hands,
and it hits the floor.
like a wine glass,
it shatters and scatters
pieces and red stains on
the carpeted floor.
i keep my heart in an ice box,
at twenty-six degrees farenheit,
locked in a cellar,
buried under piles of melancholia.

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