A.N. Wrote this a while ago. Picture not mine.
The pain is too great. It cuts through my heart, but there is no blood.
My head is surrounded, and the pain blots out the light.
It forms paper cut-outs which dance in the night.
It falls in front of me, taunting, teasing.
I stretch my arm, but, this time, it doesn’t move.
It is a knife, a blade, a dagger…sharp…waiting.
I tighten my grip, and pull it towards my chest.
For a moment, time stands still.
I tug my heart out of my chest, and hold it in my hands.
A pool of blood follows, and I feel my soul released into the emptiness around me.
The pulsing mass in my hands is puny. Pathetic. Its bleeding beat flutters.
Why should something so small cause so much pain?
The vessels are still connected. They lead from my chest, pulsing in a strange synchrony. How easy they would be to cut!
Indeed, everything around me – the whole world! – seems to beat in rhyme.
If I clipped the connection, would I run out of time?
Is this pain worth feeling? I don’t trust myself to decide.
But how can I live like this, holding my heart in my hands?
A beating heart means bleeding pain.
But a bleeding heart will never start again.
The choice lies before me, a dagger in the night.
If I sever the chords, would the pain slip away?
Or would it persist, only blocking my way?
Could a heart have a use, beyond spilling my tears?
I can’t imagine it does, even in my wildest fears.
But it sits in front of me, completely at my mercy.
It doesn’t beg, doesn’t speak, only sits there…and beats.
A faithless servant, feigning loyalty, while it conspires with the pain.
Together, they’re unstoppable. Yes, I plead with it in vain.
But this hole in my chest leaves me empty and incomplete.
If I put my heart back in, would this heartbreak just repeat?
All I know is I can’t feel this pain any more!
So I cut out my heart, and leave it on the floor…