I thought that the way to your heart was through your stomach.
So I learned to cook.
I baked your bread,
I roasted your meat,
I honey-frosted your sweetcakes.
But alas, I did not have your heart.

I believed that the way to your heart was through your feet.
So I learned to fix.
I darned your socks,
I mended your boots,
I cut new shoes of love and leather.
But alas, I did not have your heart.

I wondered if the way to your heart was through your muscles.
So I learned to work.
I chopped your trees,
I sowed your seeds,
I slaughtered your animals, their pain for your comfort.
But alas, I did not have your heart.

I hoped that the way to your heart was through your eyes.
So I learned to create.
I sewed your curtains,
I painted your walls,
I wove your rugs with blood on my thimble.
But alas, I did not have your heart.

I considered that the way to your heart was through your ears.
So I learned to play.
I strummed your strings,
I beat your drums,
I tugged your song from a choking chest.
But alas, I did not have your heart.

I prayed that the way to your heart was through your chest.
So I learned to take.
I cut through your skin,
I smashed through your bones,
I ripped and tore with steady hands.
Now, alas, I have your heart.