You have killed me.
You cut me up, but I am not the mess of a murderer’s work, even if I’d rather be; oh no, you take so much concern in your work. Just like the intricate incisions you have made in me, so carefully, with the meticulousness of a surgeon. I keep telling myself that your perfection is not your skill; I keep reminding myself that I am not the first, that your perfection is a result of your practice.
Maybe you could tell me how it felt. Tell me, now, come on. I want to know. Because I know you enjoyed every second of it, whenever I contorted my face into a lovesick smile, whenever I crumbled at your feet, whenever you held me and my heart, your weightless words crushed in between, and I fell… over, over and over again.
The only secrets a person can have are secrets that he can conceal to his own knowledge, and his knowledge alone. It is his soul. And I, who have enveloped myself for too long in my secrets have given my soul to trust, and trust has thrown it away, just as you have did with me.
And all of this was because we – you and me – believe in what is beautiful.
Maybe you can hold my heart again, now, and tell me how it feels, because there is nothing to be felt. Even pain most piercing eventually turns numb. Like how the coldest of winter can freeze your fingers and free them of any feeling. This is the frostbite of my heart.
Now I lie here, listening to the fading vibrations beneath my chest, embracing the shadows slowly in this silence, and thinking in only one language you taught me – regret.
Slice and dice, slice and dice; you have cut me up, really good. This wasn’t unintentional. It was slicing with skill, dicing with dexterity. Pure and planned. And now, you will walk away and wear my weary heart, the glorious design of my wounds with pride, for you are an artist and I am your masterpiece.
So now, bury your blade, breathe in your brilliance, and watch me bleed. For at the end of all efforts, it is all because we believe in what is beautiful.