I opened my chest cavity with no regard for the fact that my
heart might spill out. I delicately pushed my spindly fingers through skin and
bone and muscle and ligaments until I had created the gaping wound you see
before you.
It sounds poetic. Like liquid syllables and molten words. It’s
not. It’s ugly. I opened myself up to keep something safe and sacred. Sacrificed
my pumping blood to cover someone else’s shame.
I threw myself on the tracks for a promise of an uncertainty
and I’ll take that with me to my grave. Where I’ll lie, with an open chest, and
a broken heart, with your rusted key imbedded in my bones. The key to your
heart, to your secrets and lies. I’ll take it with me when I go and I’ll wear a
black mourning veil until you return, or I die, which one ever happens first.
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