you ripped my heart out and walked away with it before i could even realize it was missing.
years later i still wonder if you keep a piece of it as a memento,
maybe in a locket you wear around your neck.
is the skin of your neck stained green from the cheap metal, or did the rubbing alcohol get rid of it?
do you keep it framed on your wall,
like a family photo you pass down to your children?
they always seem to ask when it was taken.
do you tell them it means nothing?
or do you tell them about the all the blood you had to dig through to get to it?
are your clothes still stained red from it, or did you wash it all off to get rid of the evidence?
will you do the same to your next victim?
or does he get a courtesy that i didn’t?
you smashed my brain tissue until i couldn’t even identify what was left of myself.
are your hands still stained gray from my brain matter, or did you run to the sink afterwards?
you peeled back my skin until i was an inchoate mass of blood and muscles.
does my true form scare you, or are you proud of what you’ve done?
it was there all along, you only revealed it.
are your hands still soaked with my tears, or did you collect them in a cup for safe keeping?