Crush

It's never a broken heart.

It's a sore heart.
It's the sting, 
like skin getting scraped
against the asphalt.

It's a heavy heart,
immensely heavy 
and pregnant
with an unbearable void.

It's a wailing heart,
crying out like foreboding, wartime sirens,
weakening the joints,
making me collapse like a ragdoll. 

It's a bleeding heart,
color - deepest crimson,
warm liquid oozing out across,
like a vessel with a thousand punctures. 

Or may be, to call it a 'broken heart'
is an well-intended euphemism. 
Giving it any another name
might mercilessly crush the bearer.