I look through my wrists at the delicate veins that lay underneath my filthy flesh,
and I start grabbing for them.
I rip from the tip all the way up my arm,
pulling them up with care as put the tubes on the ground.
I look at the small features that make up my body.
How can something so crucial to life be something I want to destroy?
I reach into my core and pull out my organs,
my insides tumbling out.
I then breakdown my ribcage until it is reassembled right in front of my eyes.
It is suppose to be my cage,
my protection,
but I feel so sad.
So I inscribe my name in one of the ribs,
it looks so beautiful.
My name standing there in the white of the bone.
I leave my heart alone and let my hands climb to the top of my brain.
They search for the rotting pieces of thoughts,
the ones that keep me gripping at my skin,
the ones that are dead.
My hands swiftly pull these out,
they are placed into a fire.
Perhaps if I burn them, they can be gone forever.
I touch my heart one last time,
feel the beating on my hands,
feel the blood moving in and out,
wanting to keep it all alive.
The very being of my existence is a spot in my chest.
I then lay down for a nap,
too tired now to put myself back together,
and I fall asleep to the mutters of my heart.