My Home of a Heart

I hollowed out this heart for me and now find myself living in it. It is dark inside a heart and it smells of old blood; pennies and battery acid. The meaty walls are constantly closing in on me. I learn to breathe with it. In. And now out. It is suffocating. The walls are slick with blood sticking to my skin and pulling away in long spiderweb strings. The smell is metallic, nearly citric. My skin is crusted with it. I shiver in the dark, though it’s warm. Too warm. I push outwards, try to make myself some space, but the heart is stronger than me. I am trapped in a living cell. Empty but for me and the constant rush of blood. Alone, naked, sticky in the damp dark. My hair sticks in clotted globs to my face, down my back. I spread eagle in the cramped space, enough room to lock my knees and elbows. The heart contracts. The bones splinter in my arms and legs, sliver inwards. Now my blood interacts with this outside space, a meeting and melding of DNA properties. I sit. Disabled. No company but my own muffled voice that has grown hoarse and unrecognizable. No sympathy but from the thick walls closing in, holding me, expanding out, closing in. Lying in a pool of stale blood in my home of a heart.

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