My heart is gelated – could be mistaken
For a Portuguese man-o-war

Trailing long stinging tentacles
Purple blue blobs that wash up on sand

My heart must be avoided now
I have made sure to inject it

With doubt, and pre-ordained futures
There is no one whom I would invite

To pick me up even with kid gloves
And throw me back into the tides

With the hope that I can be revived.
I have never understood the brutality,

How there are so many hearts like mine
Scattered on shores of beached broken dreams.

Did they, like me, wait for a careless
Foot to be placed where poets place love?

How long are they able to pump
Or have they succumbed, floated

Without volition pushed by a sea
Of vicissitudes to give up?

I am better off left in my own grotto
Comfortable in a hidden cove

Nestled against rocks, protected
Still able to breathe in a shallow tide pool

I am not interested to sting anyone
Or be taken out of my element

Put in a zone where I could be squashed
By the unsuspecting weight of new love.