The Bloody Heart

In my hand I hold a bleeding heart. That heart is mine. I hold it because it has been ripped from my chest with such regularity that the sternum, muscle, fascia and bone that cover it are weak, unable to hold it in without assistance. This is the mark of the terminal lover, the thin flesh over the breast. I can feel it pumping beneath my fingers, reminding me not to squeeze too tight. So tempting, so tempting…

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