by Isabella Ling
I wear my heart on my sleeve and you stabbed it again and again. So I will cut your chest open, I will cut your heart out. I will hold it in my hand, I will throw it on the floor. I will watch it wither and die, but it will be too easy for you. I will let it rest there, I will watch it beat and pump. I will pick it up, I will look for the stains life has left on you. I will not miss the areas where you have hurt people. Your heart is ugly, an angry mess and tangle of red and tendons. I will see the stains, not of what life has left on you, the stains of your own hands.
You are a troubled soul, looking for trouble where there isn't any. You hurt me, so now I will make you hurt. I will put it on the floor again, I will put a knife through it. I will take my hand off the handle. I will watch the blood flow, the blood will gurgle over the open wound. The blood will come towards where I am standing. I will cry, the salty tears will mix with the blood. I will keep some of the blood in a vial. The smell of iron will be pungent, I will smell blood everywhere I go for the next week.
I will take the knife out. I will wear my heels, I will dig the heels into your heart. I will step and stomp on your heart. I will take my heels off and grind it against the bottom of my feet. It will feel softer and softer as it turns to mush, until it is hardly recognizable from the blood on the floor. I will try to scoop up whatever I can, till the floor is clean and shiny again. I will drink it, I will keep you inside of me. I will stitch up your hole. You will have no heart now. You will be empty now, just like how you have always been.
Isabella Ling thinks feelings will fade over time, though she won't say she is a fan of time. It just doesn't work fast enough sometimes. She is trying to put need and want in her list of least favourite words.