i slit my wrists:
carefully tracing blue-green
lines up to my elbows. baring
my arms, i stared at you staring
at the patterns where
blood circled my skin like rain.

clots cloud your vision.
you pronounce my blood
too translucent to make
a mark. slices of little
consequences compared
to your paper cut (i kissed
the bandage). dig deeper.

i dove to salty marrow and
bone—still too pale for
your tastes. plunging
the knife up to the hilt;
you couldn't see the wound
for serpentine streams
over my skin.

i plucked my own heart
out with the blade's tip,
squeezed it between
my ribs. it shuddered
at your touch, went in wild
syncopation. choking on
your poison apple, i watched
you carry it away.

i wonder if you will taste
me when you devour it.

a/n: for clarity, i'm not suicidal, nor do i cut. that was pure metaphor.