My heart doesn’t just bleed for you, it tears. I place it in the dark room where you live, and it fluoresces a faint green glow of life. When you approach my heart, I wear it proudly and rip it open, gorily gushing blood upon the white carpet floor. I tear it farther as you get closer, like a serrated edge to it’s flesh, and leave your hands to play with the crimson draining blood. You stick your hands around the core of my heart, into the fleshy vulnerable tissue and grind the dirt from your hands upon my vulnerable fleshy surface. It feels like vomiting up organs. But I bear it for you, as you paint pictures of happiness with my brio. I give you the option to take me out of my misery by simply pinching the blue spark of my core. I would watch you do it. Your little fingers would approach my core to caress it and I would flinch…but instead you leave me to bleed red all over the white carpet in the dark room where you used to live. I live here now, playing with hearts and painting pictures of happiness. Don’t get too close.
Something is very wrong.
I blamed the hormones for coursing my blood faster and faster and lining my arteries with sparks. I blamed my heart for refusing to stop beating. I blamed my family for fucking and for placing the vodka within my genes—my hands. I blamed my friends for scuttling away into darkness to find their own lights and games. I smashed my heart with my fist; and ate the pieces. And like a light going out, I sat down in blood.
And like a light going out,
I laid down and forgot to breathe.
