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You don’t understand. A broken heart
Is not a metaphor. The person
With a broken heart
Cannot love anymore.
A broken heart lies hidden away.
Love’s invisible. Love cannot be seen
By a doctor’s chart.
Love could be polite, or want to play
In the occurrences of every day.
Love might keep one up at night,
Because fear and hope are love.
Blue is blue and green is green.
A broken hand is a broken hand.
But a broken heart cannot be seen.
This is important to understand:
The person with a broken heart
Sleeps. And cannot love anymore.
The broken heart becomes a rapist,
The broken heart becomes a whore.
The broken heart is real,
But can’t be measured. What we feel
Is more important than what we think.
Love cannot be felt
By the broken heart. When you knelt
And prayed in the vestibule
She laughed behind your back.
He’s a rapist. None can measure
The rapacity of the whore,
The horror of the heart which cannot love anymore.
It’s hard to see who doesn’t love anymore.
This is what the rapist seeks, not innocence,
Not love. The rapist seeks the whore.
The rapist does not seek the fool
Praying in the vestibule.
Rape is bold, because the broken heart,
Deeply hidden, which loves no more,
Is what the rapist searches for.
The word is “searches,” not “pleasure.” The modesty
Of the heart which has not been broken
Cannot be detected by what is spoken,
Cannot be seen by what you wear.
The broken heart isn’t here or there
Except in the secret behavior of the whore
Who appears normal, but can’t love anymore.
The urgency of the rapist is to find the whore
And ravish her once, and then no more.
The rapist seeks the broken heart
Which lies. And lies away from every chart.
A broken heart is not a broken hand.
A broken heart is worse.
Subtle. And not. Do you understand?