Kitchen Floors Are a Place of Death

What is the point of a heart that does break,
when it can be open for someone to take?
When it can be bruised beneath every pound
by the fist of truth as it gets passed around?
A heart is made of tissue that is easily torn
by the teeth of the evil behind lips that scorn.
A heart is comprised of more than just love,
it carries your liquid life in the form of blood;
The life that flows through your entire body
that is released by daggers thrown constantly
until your life flows freely from your mortal flesh
and you're left in the puddle bleeding to death.
So why is it love that hurts so much more
than bleeding to death on the kitchen floor?
Why is it that cuts have such better appeal?
Perhaps because they are easier to heal?
Because a superhero masked as Band-Aid
is always around to save the day?
The broken heart, shattered by a blow
leaks out the love and how painfully it flows,
like lava crawling over all of your skin;
and your stomach continually tries to cave in.
Your eyes cry and cry for weeks upon end
like rainfall God used to flood the Earth way back then.
You rain and you storm, and sit all alone
in such a full world staring blankly at the phone.
Broken hearts are a mission to finally mend
and you swear on your life you won't do it again.
But you fall victim to such a beautiful face
and once again you find yourself in that horrific place,
You look into a mirror and see a monster staring back;
you walk with your guns out, ready for an attack.
A heart is full of love that is just another treasure
that the pirates to steal because they love the pleasure
of robbing something, just to have for show.
In the process they don't give a rip or even know
how it feels as your heart flies amongst the bullets.
Or maybe they're completely numb to all of it
because they have had their hearts beaten down,
left to bleed out love to death on the ground.
Breakable hearts are more than just a painful curse;
opening up your chest to pull it out is so much worse.
To see such a vital organ lying in your hand
brusied and stitched, held together by a rubber band
is more than disturbing or a pitiful revelation.
Theuseless creature is in surrender, completely done.
Its beats don't sing anymore as they once were able.
Breakable hearts in the chest make one unstable.
With my mangled heart in my hand there is nothing more
than to leave it helpless and bleeding to death in its puddle on the kitchen floor.