Do you ever see a blade
and wonder
what it would be like to cut
through the layers of skin?
To slice
through the dead
and then
the living?
To see the gush
of life flow
from the wound that you created?
To touch
and leave
your mark of life
?
Only then
can you say
your life blood
has touched another.

How much?

How much do I open up my skull to expose my brain? only to let it fall on the ground?

How much?

How much do I open up my chest to show my heart? only to let it fall from my body?

How much?

How much do I let the blood pulse through my finger-tips? only to let it soak up the floor?

I desire for them to see and feel my heart. I desire to move them as they move me.
My heart is burning but my limbs are stiff.
The heat creates in me a malleable substance, so why am I this brittle? So fragile?
I try to move my mouth but I cannot speak. I cannot taste the words.

The torment is as engulfing as the darkness of night. It suffocates as the hand across the nose and mouth. The fight to be free only wrenches it closer. The pain throbs as too much pressure on muscle and joint. Bane-fully it emerges through the eyes. The anguish retained on the shoulders that carry it. It is the haunt of life.

Could it be that the time on this earth is fully spent in an attempt to reconcile the myriad of life's elements?