How to Make a Heart into an Abattoir

There is an icepick engaged in my ribcage,
I plunged it there myself,
Took one part sharp object and two parts freewill
And spilled my own blood,
Struck through skin and bone and ligament to find the fibreous filament that festered ill before,
Full of irrational fears and my own self-doubt.

And worse, the cutting was felt in a sympathetic muscle,
Who loves me despite my deficiencies,
And whom I wanted to show I’ve grown,
Except I didn’t,
A child lacking reason,
To prove that I could and because I hurt in her own revelation;
What was just yesterday a celebration is now a crime scene,
Made a massacre in the abattoir, flesh torn, set against itself, divided.

And even worse, I hid a truth to have my way,
Did not consider the trace of pain it would therein lay.

I am self-murdered murderer, I am elbowing sans caution,
There is worthlessness inside me that is seeking to get out,
And I’ve let it, trickled red upon the pavement,
What derangement for a feeling that could be overcome?

What has been done is done so now there’s nothing left but moving on,
As we play into the next song.

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