Your frayed sleeve brings to mind the blacksmith who
removes his apron but cannot remove
its stenciled shape etched like a fine tattoo
upon his chest. What do you hope to prove
by ripping off your used heart's public sign?
In haste you leave the broken blind-stitched thread
around a dark and empty valentine.
Deception says, It never even bled.
One spurned plays masquerade before the glass,
denies the evidence he's doomed to wear,
pretends the tattoos of his life will pass
and when they don’t, pretends he doesn't care.
But, unmasked hearts lay heavy in the weave
when worn excessively upon the sleeve.