Pristine Condition

My heart isn't in pristine condition,

tiny stitches runs up its

walls where it took 

two pieces and made them 

(somewhat) whole again,

bruised from the 

times it has proven itself 

(again and again) that it's too big 

for my ribcage to hold,

fluttering with any

anticipation and the ensuing 

anxiety of rushing

(terrifying) feelings that fill it to the brim.

My heart isn't in pristine condition,

 

it's been hurt so many times

but it aches in want at 

the slight brush of 

your fingertips,

and if you'll take it 

with its stitches and bruises and

humming of aches 

I'd gladly surrender it to you.