i write this to you but for myself.
i consistently lead myself to believe i am delving deep into someone else's heart with good intentions.
taking great care not to disturb the inner workings of the valves and chambers that make up a hearty existence.
but i always rip it open. no matter how slow i go.
it routinely tears apart. time and time again, revealing you.
it's not a mendable rip either. easy to fix with a few stitches.
no.
i take the whole thing and devour it.
i am conniving and convincing up until the very last thread is severed. i ruin the pumping mass in my own selfish struggle to find you. maybe it's engraved in here somewhere. a hidden clue to get me back to where i started. scraping and scratching, until i arrange it so, in order for me to see the hole that is you. to see through to you on the other side.
in the beginning you were etched in,
able to make carbon copies on ample plump hearts.
over and over.
simple and easy enough.
but now the table has become worn,
copy after copy has only made things more heated.
now you are burnt in.
scarred in.
forever entangled,
in the clots and arteries that is me trying to move on.
