Heart

I lie here in your sordid cave, littered with cold light and the stench of blood, dividing my heart.

I can still feel where it once throbbed, my now bloodied chest, yawning for its return.

It beats under my gaze, in my hand, eager to be picked apart.

It still pulses for me, for you.

 For its deathly fantasy of bone and sinew.

Ready to make you its clay urn.

It sends out ribbons of my own crimson despair as I separate tendon from tendon, wall from wall.

It squeals my name, your name, in unison.

Its final paean, with each warm throb, soaking the tablecloth with its sanguine pall.

I give it no rest because I have none.

I solemnly extract a sliver, still quivering with desire.

I place it on your metallic plate, but you merely glance down at it.

My chest gasps to be whole again, but I can’t feed it my cold heart.

It has become a martyr for its final vain cause.

It whimpered like a trapped mouse as it suffocated in my grasp.

I don’t care anymore to feel it, to hear it, to see it.

I don’t want its affections and its joys anymore, now long dead.

I can’t stand to burden myself with it anymore.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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