We attempt to wield it, curve it into a circle, a heart around us. But it can’t be done. Trust is or it isn’t.
The broken are broken. They will never fully trust without the most strong, certain, loving and reassuring person. Reassure. Then reassure again, again and again.
Some of us have been left for dead.
Or our ex lovers have cleaned our blood, scrubbed it from the grout in their floors. Bleach and brillow pads.
The broken are broken.
Most men become mouses in the presence of the broken.
We come along as sirens. Our crippling song draws them in and cracks them within the skull.
At first amusement excites. And then they run wild back and forth.
Sirens are sirens.
They’re broken creatures, mad in the head.
The men that are really mouses will never find love. They think they will, until they get bored with their keep. Then the sirens draw them back in. Their skulls crack back open. Endless cycles of shitty mouses falling upon shitty broken sirens.