String In My Throat

My heart’s heavy like sand.
You heat it up and then it just turns into glass.
It’s easy for you to smash.
The wreckage is on fire; melted and twisted iron.
Wood splintered and chipped with one hundred nails stuck in it. I choke to talk
to you.
I choke to look at you.
You’re a piece of string in my throat.
My face is like a map; you see where you are at an X for, «You are here between
my eyebrow and my ear.
Just a tiny mole.»
You see it?
From up close, a picture of your face tattooed on my face.