You can’t kill the spirit of the lionhearted.

Lionhearted body parts.

Bricks for shoulders,

tied to heaven.

Silent names on lips.

Medicated fingertips.

Brave, because I keep

the real secrets at bay.

Strong, because I trash

my strife and walk tall

with you on my back.

Weak, because I can

scream and scream,

but you only get

whispers out of me.

Prose in eyes,

the real cries still unseen.

Color and whimsy in a mind

too open, it faucets your

toxicity down to my heart.

Hands that only hold ghosts.

Feet that only walk forward,

but trip into nostalgia.

Hips that guard my

penetrable heart against

impenetrable heartache.

Arms that have held everyone

else's child but my own.

An empty belly by choice and earthquaked nerves, trembling and begging my throat to stand up to me in its name.

Ears filled with dedicated

songs and kept secrets.

And my face...the president

of my body's nation, never losing character in the midst of war.

No one has ever taken the time to know my parts. Yet, here I am, having memorized everyone's slightest breaths.