I have a bleeding heart. It’s bleeding from a thousand little cuts.
Every cut is a story someone told me, or a time I saw them cry. Every cut is someone else, opening the wall of my ventricles and atria with a razor blade they don’t know they’re wielding.
Every time I try to know a person, they cut me open. I have as many cuts as I have memories and they’re constantly bleeding, some are oozing or seeping, some are gushing but none of them are healing.
Sometimes men see the cuts. Sometimes they see the blood in my tears when it runs together with all my other bodily fluid. They want to help, they want to heal the cuts but they’re like Edward scissorhands, incapable of touching without wounding. They always leave more cuts than when they started.
There are vampires. I don’t need to talk about them. You know what vampires are.
I’m low on blood. I’m low on the pumping, bright red force that powers my body. Sometimes people see the flush in my cheeks, they see the blood, brought to the surface and they think “isn’t she vibrant? Isn’t she bright! There’s so much of her!”
But it’s just the fascination that comes with the sight of blood.
I’m so tired. I just want to rest.