• i'll cut myself
    right up the middle
    and you can watch
    my ribcage spring open
    survey the damage
    the rot, the hole
    where my heart used to be[at]
    and i'll giggle as the blood flows
    the damage is permanent
    the sickness contagious
    you're next in line.

    things always follow
    your righteous lead, and i'm the left
    behind in the dust
    midwinter's pride and sadness
    well, i'm still dead
    and my unlife was in your hands
    everything i own is in my head
    i'm running out of space,
    evicting memories at the breakneck speed
    the pace
    at which i make them-
    make room.

    memories without a home
    in a box on city streets.

    digging up regrets and displaying them
    proudly on my shelf
    and you'll see that my heart-
    the tattered remnants are on my sleeve,
    hence the hole.

    look back at the blood,
    pooled about your feet,
    infected with disease
    tendrils, black and sick
    creeping towards your chest
    blending imperceptibly
    tearing holes in you,
    worming through your veins
    you can't carve it out
    with the sharpest knife
    (i've tried)
    or grate it away
    with the roughest file
    (i've tried)
    or wish it away
    (your heart's been sucked dry)