My heart— by dictionary—
Is a hollow, muscular organ
that pumps the blood through the circulatory system—
by rhythmic contraction and dilation.
Though through the eyes of mine,
my heart rots—
it kills me
inside out.
A heart may beat with gentle rhythmic pulses.
A heart may beat as a soothing lullaby,
music to the ears.
A heart of mine clenches,
twists into fists that beat, and beat, and beat.
A rhythm with no melody.
But what am I to do?
I have no other hand to hold,
my fingers curl and twist desperately,
shredding flesh in a torrent of red.
They pinch themselves,
looking for something to hold,
something to ground them.
Hands grow teeth,
biting my heart as I start to scream.
I am not the only one.
Tears roll down my cheeks,
my heart shrinks and wrinkles into an ugly,
wretched mess.
Begging and pleading for the fire to stop—
insides grow red and hot.
Blood and fire course through my veins—
Will you set me aflame?
You would burn me if you had the chance,
wouldn’t you?
You are burning this world.
Watching as my heart—
like this world unfurls into ash.
Well if that is to be so,
then I will be reborn in those ashes anew.
Guiding the world through rebirth,
just you wait and see.
Like a phoenix rising from the rubble—
Though my tears won’t heal,
my heart will beat, and beat, and beat.
My tears don’t heal—
they scar, like fire they burn.
They want my fingers to unclench my heart,
to let go yet they are the ones who forced it closed.
They want us to behave—
to earn the right to be alive.
Yet they say we deserve death?
To earn the beating of our hearts.
Yes—
beating, and beating, and beating.
What cost am I to pay?
What can I do if not beat,
what can my heart feel if not anger.
This world feels anger.
If I were ashes, would anyone rush to get me into a pretty vase?
Would anyone try to find all of me,
piece me back together?
And yet through words of flame,
through songs of time,
I feel a cracking in my monstrous hide.
A phoenix born from ash,
words pour through the red of my lips,
hot like fire, soothing my burns.
Speaking the truth of humanity.
I will not burn and be left as an ugly stain on our world.
I will put out the fire that attempts to destroy this Earth—
the Earth that we should hold dear.
Through this war of right and wrong,
through this beating, and beating, and beating,
I still feel as though the unfolding of my words gives me light.
Is that not what a poem is?
Is this not what poetry does?
It acts as a beautiful shining star,
bringing light to all that is dark.
But the stars don’t shine, they burn.
And just like a heart
This poem beats, and beats and beats.
Not to die, but to rise.
Author’s Note:
I first made the draft for this piece as a broken, isolated 12 year old girl who felt like the world was against her for various reasons, whether that be because she was a girl, because she wasn’t white, or because of all races, she had to be one of the most mocked in our society, Indian. I was bullied, mocked, and it broke me, then when I was 13 I changed this poem again, the sadness morphed into anger, the time when my heart had learned to beat. At 14, I began to forgive myself for faults I couldn’t control, at 14 I decided that I would not debate whether I was worth a place in this world, or whether the world was worth a place with me; at 14, right now I love this world and I will do my best to heal it in the way writing has healed me. I am thriving on strength, endurance, and honestly pure spite, so I can show everyone who brought me down, I don’t crumble, I rebuild.
Shivnoor Gill | 14 | Bakersfield, CA | @https.st4rgaze on TikTok
