Inadequacy

I lie here, carving the flesh from my chest, handing the chunks to your outstretched hand.

No matter how much I give, it never seems to be enough.

At your wish, I hollow out my chest cavity, offering you my entrails.

I hand over my lungs and pancreas, or so I think-the hunks of flesh are almost indistinguishable.

Suddenly, in my work, I bump into a swollen, throbbing muscle in my chest that I recognize as my heart.

Your hand remains outstretched, demanding it.

I shake my head, holding my heart protectively against my hollow breast.

This is one request I must refuse.

At a loss, you huff and walk away, leaving me a bloody mess, sprawled across the floor, clutching my still beating heart.