Chloe Green Poet I do not know?

To Care

To care,
A peculiar notion isn’t it?
An envelope of warmth,
A hand ghosting a shoulder
As you mutter the musical lull.
Or spit daggers to the opposing

To care,
To shred your beating heart
Into tiny bloody fragments,
Scattering them like confetti over anyone
Who dares enter the party of your mind.

To care,
To bang your fists against their walls
Until you bleed out from your self-inflicted wounds
As you watch them trample those fragile,
Fluttering fragments under foot.

To care,
To care for self,
To hold those glittering jewels
Like a poker player with cards abreast.
A twisted self-preservation and the path to emptiness,
Alone.

But I’d rather care,
I’d rather love, rather live, rather break.
Because to care is to have purpose 
And give meaning to that beating heart.

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