I won’t tell you to “man up” because when a heart breaks,
it cracks down the middle in exactly the same place for everybody.
Sometimes the fault line is just a little more jagged than others.
The worst thing you can do right now is run away from home,
because even though your heart is snapped like a bird’s neck,
it’s still the only apartment you’ll ever have,
no matter how dilapidated the back porch gets.
Maybe most people think a man
would be strong, be tough,
but in a situation like this
even cigarette burns feel like forest fires.
Don’t touch the mess of your torn
vena cava and bloodlines – they’ll
flame up like a funeral pyre.
This might get ugly.
Fight with your fists; throw left hooks like the wedding bouquets
you’re suddenly not sure you’ll ever get to smell.
No more limping like a stray dog with its tail between its legs;
when you were born even the bones in your spine
were already trying to make you stand upright,
so prove scoliosis wrong.
No more throwing stones
at glass houses – you’ve already got
enough brokenness to deal with
for one night.
No antiseptic either, no bandages.
Let there be scars.
Let them come.
They’re just anatomical proof of survival.