I don’t remember coming here inside myself, wait, actually I do remember. I don’t want to remember but I do and I know why. I don’t worry about the strangeness of the thoughts in my head as I run my hand over the black bars of my cage. I belong here and in some ways it is the only place that I belong. My heart still flutters painfully in my chest although I distinctly remember ripping it out a time or two, Or was it ripped from me. I shake my head my shaggy never perfect hair falls around my shoulders in confusion as I remember the crackling pop of ribs as a hand stretches them apart to dig at the soft tissue underneath. It is a wonder I still draw breath. The strange feeling of my lung being pushed aside so that you could get to the most vital part of me. Your hands are warm as they grasp it, somehow I didn’t expect them to be warm. The tugging sensation makes me shiver as its connections are severed and you begin to withdraw. The sliding sensation is all pleasure and pain wrapped up like a Christmas gift, tied with a particularly visceral bow.

cry

7 thoughts on “Roses, Thorns, and the Dark

      1. They are fools and lack the ability to look deeper, recognizing the myriad of lessons to be learned from the written word.
        Words can be weapons yet also dear friends…

      2. They are so many things and people treat words so callously they don’t understand that they cannot be taken back. Even though the deepest cut will heal words tend to slice deeper than the sharpest knife and heal slower than the deepest puncture.

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