Rip me open, navel to chin,
Let my smoking guts spill out.
Hear them hit the ground with the wet smack of a soaked towel hitting concrete.
They steam in the air, though it's not cold outside.
My face twisted and curled like a prune left out in the sun.
Grip the organs with your hands. Run them through your fingers like sticky wet spaghetti.
Feel my heart still beating in my chest. Hung from the aortas, like strings from a marionette.
Pumping furiously, a thousand horses beating as one. Running low on fuel. Choking to death as if swallowing ash.
Grip it tightly to make me gasp in writhing pain.
Squeeze like a boa constrictor about to kill its prey.
Take your blade, cold, hard, steel, as stoic as a flagpole in winter, and carve your name into my lungs so I breathe you in my last moments.
The blood, other than the little left in my heart, drains to the ground beneath me.
It seeps beneath your feet, like motor oil with no catch pan.
The darkened red, the same darkness as my mood.
Anger. Bitter. Venomous.
Thrust your hand through my gaping chest cavity and grip my spine like a black metal vice.
So delicate. The ability to paralyze within something so open to touch.
Grip it tightly and pull with all the strength of a piston reaching its zenith.
Render it in twain.
As the pink spinal fluid, like a watered down version of a pink cotton candy color, floods my body cavity and my eyes go glassy, look at me.
Stare into my blue eyes with the yellow fire rings around my iris,
Stare into them.
Then whisper to me softly.
Tell me I am done. Tell me to die.
Tell me it is over.
And as my body lies lifeless, limp as a broken jewelry chain,
Tell me how worthless I am.
Tell me I couldn't even die right.
Tell me I'm finished.
Then tell me you love me.
And I'll believe it all.
