Pinned to the ceiling like a butterfly on wax paper. Limbs bound tightly with leather, my eyes dripping pools of tears onto the tiles in patterns, each one hitting the floor in a melodic burst that sounds like breaking glass. I'm going nowhere, nowhere, nowhere, a little faster than I planned. "Nowhere" is that little place, that town behind his irises. That place filled with bright blue objects, every home lining the cobalt, sky, electric, cornflower, navy, teal, dark streets evicted by "Them". "They" are those foolish emotions packed away in storage boxes against the back walls of my long lost elation, collecting dust and being completely forgotten by every cell in my body. "Numb" is stamped across my broken wrist in smeared black ink, and I am holding my own in a paradise where everyone is the same, just a ceiling ornament waiting for a good idea to make her spark up again. My jaw is locked in three places and I know he broke a few of my ribs when he left, because I can still feel that rush of air sinking through my skin and into that empty space under my ribcage. He plucked that bleeding, pulsating, torn muscle right out of my chest like it was a cherry, dragging it behind him for miles. I regret ever showing him where I kept it, and I still remember - will always remember - that fucked up surgery he performed on me over a span of three monthes, slowly penetrating me until he found it, then ran away with it before he was caught. My thief of hearts. Now my hair is falling out in clumps and making pretty little whispy sounds against the tiles, some strands moistening as they settle into the puddles that reflect my naked, screaming form. I'm decaying from the inside out, and I know this is what death feels like.
How?
He showed me.
He'll showed you too, someday.
Everything comes in cycles these days,
even those blue eyed creatures, that come and go,
and will never let me sleep.
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