Sensitive 
 
We clasp our hearts in our hands
And the faintest jostle can start internal bleeding
Years of holding close, concealing
Don't serve to thicken veins and arteries
Their lace remains as fragile as ever
And our hands as unsuited and callused.

But I need the peace of knowing
That I'll bruise as easily as you.
The only thing that dulls the edge of this knife
Is being able to bleed over the injury I've inflicted you with.

I will hold my heart to my chest
But it's only two inches from Nature
Only half a second from pain.
It's what makes us human.