The very idea
that someone thinks
calling me a bleeding heart
is an insult
is at the heart
of our inability
to understand one another.

If my heart did not bleed
For the pain of others
If it did not boil
Hot inside my chest
At the sight of a child
Being separated from her mother
If it did not send thick blood
Rushing pulsating throbbing
To fill my head with
A deafening white noise
At the news of shots
Ringing out in a sacred place

Then I would wish my heart
simply
to stop.

Because after all
What is the alternative
To a bleeding heart?

One made of stone?
Or ice?
Or paralyzed
by a hard shell of hatred?

My heart may bleed
But it continues to beat
And as long as it does …

I will bind up my wounds
So I can tend to the wounds of others
I will get close enough to the cold-hearted
So that my heart’s warmth
Might melt their own
I will cushion the landing
As others fall on hard times
So that hearts of stone cannot crush them.

Yes, I am proud of my bleeding heart.

Maybe I’ll even wear it on my sleeve.

Debra Rose Brillati
June 2019