If I could carve out my own
heart, I think I’d survive it.
What I am now, something
too close to involuntary.
It does not admit me,
doesn’t yield to release
its secrets. It fastened
itself to my self.
I have a mane,
my nostrils flare.
Some kind of remainder:
But I am the human thing.
Some form of animal. My heart
its own peculiar being. If I knew
how to survive my own heart.