In lower school, a boy scribbled 

a heart on a scrap of paper

and slipped it in my bag. He drew

it with a crimson crayon

left broken by his shaky hand.

I carried it with me in the halls,

feeling the crinkled manila 

between my fingers. I drew

one in scarlet next to his

and laid it in his palm.

He gave a smirk and said,

“oh yeah?”

I nodded and reached out

my hand to his. And we cradled

the tiny slip in our grasp.

In high school, a boy doesn’t want

my heart but what’s on either side.

I take a photo and he says,

“oh yeah?”

        And I nod.

Tears pool in my collarbones

as he says, “one more?”

and my crimson heart bleeds

for you, making my manila skin 

stain red.