and hope to keep safe from the pain

your words linger
in a space
in my heart
that is - while I think you imagine it a giant blank warehouse -
actually is being actively and intentionally condensed into the tiniest emotional nuclear waste dump imaginable, a Russian nesting doll whose additional layers make it smaller, tougher, and more contained.
a heart the size and consistency of a "bb".
It dances on the head of the pin, though, no angels in sight.
Angels aren't thinking about reopening the wound with a swift jab from a fission explosion.

On the alters of:
normalcy,
provision,
comfort,
exaltation,
satisfaction,
and possibility

have I offered my:
youth,
sanity,
self,
passion,
satisfaction,
and actuality.

Yet, in less than one sentence,
The nesting dolls are pushed off their shelf,
and slow-motion dive toward the nucleus.
You have reduced me to glass and ash.

Can a phoenix use its own tears to heal itself?
Is that a refining process?