Those four simple words that a child could say,
could also stab a bleeding heart.
The crimson liquid seeping down into the pit of my stomach,
until i throw it up.
The left overs from my lip i touch with a finger.
The saltiness of the mixture of vomit and blood stings
the minor cut on the cleft of my lip.
The blue veins scale my arms like a web of deceit.
Bleeding internally and externally I look for a way to stop the wounds.
Ahead of me, i see the ghost of my imaginary friend.
I carry my frail arms and legs across the cement painted shards of glass.
I call for my friend.
It sees the trails of crimson that i leave behind me as i trudge.
Yet, somehow i still manage to make it alive.
I call for my friend again, and this time the ghost seems to stop.
“Do you have a napkin?” i asked.
My friend replies, “I’m sorry, i do not.”