You once told me that I wrote too much with my heart and not
enough with my head. For the record, my head seems quite adept at
slashing opening my heart and leaving it bleeding across the page. Once I
tried to speak words which couldn’t be uttered. You gave them back to me
but they were false. No lie, lies within these words. I pined for
you, despaired over you. I still wonder if you ever even knew. Boys
usually don’t care about such things.
You took one look at green eyes that never were and seduced
me into this skin I now wear. I’m older, perhaps wiser but in turn, they
have all left an imprint in my heart. There imprints are the twisted ugly
scars I carry, buried in my chest, where no eyes will ever see, ears will ever
hear, or which lips shall never speak.
Some take a knife to the flesh. Like the leeches of
old, perhaps they believe the letting of your blood will let the bad humors out
of your body. Or perhaps they are addicted to the pain; the sensation of
the blade cutting into their flesh and the warm blood seeping out, offers them
a kind of release. I’m not so deep.
The release of my pain is simple. I let my fingers
dance wildly across the keyboard in tune to a music only they can hear.
My eyes take in the words that appear on the blank page. My head is in
command of my fingers. My eyes are the captives, helplessly enthralled,
unable to turn away as my heart is torn to shreds over and over again.
The blood staining the pages run red until the words take shape and become
little black lines.
My pain, written for your viewing pleasure. My agony,
submitted for your scrutiny. Will you take out this knife embedded in my
heart? I’m not quite sure how it should be done.
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