Bleeding Heart

Blood is oozing out of my skin, trickling down the imperfect curves of my fingers, leaving behind traces of the injury. The ugly cut has painted my flesh purple and green. My wrist looks horribly carved by the dull knife. It bears grisly strings of overlapping lines. And the bruises are on fire. Hell has franchised a throne in my body. I would scream if I could, but something is wrong with my vocal chords. Something is wrong in the processing of the messages in my internal system. Something is wrong with me.

I don't want to move. That would only wear out my strength. I just want to sit here, with my arms wrapped around my knees, and drown in my own blood if possible. I'm usually a fighter. I fight until there's nothing left. But what's the point when every part of me is stained by an untreatable malady. I don't want to fight anymore. I just want to give up, and let the sun eat me alive.

My heart is broken. My heart is gushing out poison. It's corroding the assembly of my organs. It's killing me slowly.

Opus: Bleeding Heart by Acceptance