Making Metaphors About Metaphors on Valentine's Day

My heart scrapes against glass
again in the wind. It's a metal heart,
red, with a small hole in the upper left corner.
It's less than perfect (everything always is).

The wind shoots down the street as if it's aimed,
a tunnel of sound, it's the only sound in this small town.
A few ghostly howls, a steady drone, and it could almost lull me
to sleep if not for that jolting scrape of metal and glass.

It gives me a start as I lay in bed, and makes me think twice
about hanging love out on the porch like that.
After tonight's storm, I'll find my heart on the ground.
A little dented maybe. All wet. That's how it goes, I guess.

I still have hope that this time, the storm won't be too strong.
And this time my heart will survive. I'll just pick it up, brush it
off, and hang it back up on that rusted nail.
'Cause I'm the kind of gal who hangs her heart outside, who loves hearts made of steel.