Punctured Hearts

With punctured hearts,

We persist on presenting

A person un-punctured,

Unfazed,

Unhurt,

By the consequences

Of hopeful relationships

That have led to no avail.

Our counterparts,

However,

Appear

And are

Unhurt,

Unfazed,

Un-punctured,

By what they had claimed

At one point or another

To have meant so much to them.

Our mother examined us,

Judging us

Our beauty:

In tact

Our bodies:

Not unappealing

Our intelligence:

Apparent

Our age:

Slipping away

Her conclusion:

Inconclusive

And so puzzled,

She continued making phone calls.

Meanwhile,

We counted the moments

From whence it ended,

Minutes taunted us,

Masquerading as hours,

Days cheated us,

Claiming to be months,

All the while,

They couldn’t care less,

They couldn’t care

Enough.

You see,

Our sadness,

Our disappointment,

Is purely circumstantial,

Our pain,

A circumstance of not accumulating,

What we believed to have been deservedly ours.

At least by this point

In our lives!

Thus,

Our happiness,

Or lack thereof 
Is a persistent pain,

Unwittingly keen in permitting

Indulgence on this point,

And this point alone:

What's the point? 

One consoled the other,

The other consoled

Another,

Each one aware

Of offering false hope,

Since all the while

A little voice

Whispered

What if that was as good as it got?

And so we continue,

Embedding hopes

And dreams in others,

Busying our existence,

Away from what we could have imagined,

Settling

With instilling intelligence

On the next generation,

With our punctured hearts,

With our fazed hearts,

Having learnt

A very valuable lesson

Repeatedly,

And the hard way,

To not trust ourselves

Our counterparts,

But to turn away

And leave this matter

Alone

To God.