"Dear heart" and "I Still," two poems by Desiree

Dear heart, 
I’m sorry. And thank you. For everything. For withstanding all of the heartache you’ve endured. For the weight you’ve carried and felt. For the neglect you experienced and withstood it all and stayed kind. You stayed warm when you were thrown nothing but shards of ice. I’ve wanted you to get hard. I’ve wanted to you turn cold. I’ve wanted to build up walls for you and guard you because we can both feel the toll you’ve taken in this life. Yet your strength is profound. You have melted everything I’ve ever started because you’ve known what I could never be sure of. You knew love was the key. The answer. The way. You know that kindness and compassion and love and support and care is what will heal us all, even if we specifically won’t live to see it all the way through. We’ve lived it enough to know it’s true, yet I still doubt it. You never have doubted it. And I appreciate you for staying true whenever I falter. You’ve saved me in all of the senses that exist. I will work with you best I can and we will save whatever we can of this mess called life. 
xo

-Desiree

__________

I Still

I still expected to hurt. I still expected to bleed. As long as I expect to keep breathing, I still expect to keep aching. I’ve ridden most expectations I’ve held of others, after falling accustomed to them falling short. That’s not what hurts me. That’s not what makes it hard to breathe. So much so it's as if every particle of oxygen instantly evaporates from all around me. 
Internally. Externally. Suddenly. Just as any spark and hope and life evaporates right along with it. Poof. Gone. Even then, the will sometimes goes away too and I’m left - not even gasping for air. No longer fighting for a chance. 

It’s a lifeless gaze with an empty stillness and a full-bodied but fragmented frozen nothingness. 

And it all just sits in this momentary wasteland. My pulse becoming the only sensation, movement, and existence that remains. The body’s rendition of the tick tock of a clock, a metaphorical timer with it’s own innate pressure and pace.
Counting itself down to breaking point. Pushing until my body kicks back in, as I learned I could expect it to. But it’s still subtle. Almost unnoticeable. 

Giving only the bare minimum because it’s already been given away and taken from. 

I’ve done so much that I can’t expect myself to be able to do it all. I’ve resuscitated so many others not so that I could expect it back. 
I can’t expect perfection. I can’t expect reciprocation. I still can't even expect respect. 

Realistically, I can’t expect much. So I still expect to hurt.