I remember when
in my middle school health class, they told me that
the human heart is roughly the size of a fist.
I don’t remember what the teacher said
next, because I was too busy
curling my fingers into my palm.
surely, whatever I was feeling
had to have been made by something larger than
my frail hands;
something more powerful
than my thirteen-year-old fist
I closed my eyes and punched the desk as hard as I could
the skin on my knuckles tore open,
blood surfacing, shooting
pain up my arm,
and I walked with teary eyes
to the principal’s office.
when he asked why I did it,
I could only say that I was testing my heart
these days, I still ball my hand into a fist and just
stare at it for a bit.
I do this every day,
and sometimes I’ll punch something,
like my desk, or a wall,
or the drawer that holds all the pictures I've got of her
my fist has gotten a little larger since then,
but it still breaks and bleeds just the same.
my heart still hurts as much as it did that day,
when she left me
full of pain