Eurydice

There once was a girl,
who had hearts in her hands.
One was hers, one was mine, one was his.

Much to the dismay of many, one cannot live with a hole in their chest;
She needed to fill it to bleed like the rest.

So the first she tried was hers,
but the organ proved too big.
It beat, and it burned, and it filled her with dread.

So she threw it away.

The second heart was mine,
and at first she felt at rest.
There was plenty of room,
and it didn’t burn at her breast.
But the engine proved too small –
it could not move her an inch.
She threw it away when it froze in her chest.

The next she tried was his,
but here this story bends:

Only those whose tales come after know what happens once ours ends.