The Art, in Breaking Hearts

Corazone 2

I bled, bright red
today.
I gripped the wound,
and the warmth
of the blood that pulsed
past my fingers and
ran across my breasts
onto the floor,
was a vivid
reminder.
I never was in control.
I was merely caught
off guard, and propelled
into a motion, not unlike
a speeding train.
Or falling plane.
No emergency brakes, when
it is actually an emergency.
No warning signs, seat belts.
helmets or knee pads.
No fucking parachutes.
Just the stomach churning slam,
and the knowledge that when you
open your eyes again,
nothing will be the same.
Not ever again.

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7 thoughts on “The Art, in Breaking Hearts

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