The 48th Death
Sticking a sword in the false heart. Let the blackened blood bleed. Let it spill forth and remove itself from your infection. I am stabbing and I am stabbing and I am stabbing until every false heart bleeds. Until we crack open to reveal the one. The forgotten red inside of me. False icons, false breath. The falsification of voice. The grotesque swallowing of your entire insides. Purge. Purge it all. And do not care who you will affect. Why do you insist on keeping yourself sick?
I’m at the point where I hear the old voices. I hear them all. Like whispers from the underbelly of my splitting mind. They attempt to procure themselves into form by shifting through my limbs. Ghosts without ammunition but hold a figurative gun to the inside of my head. Guns surrounding the perimeter of what lies in the crown of my skin. An internal hostage. An inside job.
Yet, I’ve traced where the voices do not live. Where they do not permeate my soul. What ferocious reservoirs they are unable to breathe in. They lose themselves at the locket. At the center. at the core. I let the lights go black and fetch a silver sword. And I sear into the heart of myself. I cut through the atrocities that have barbed the purity of my word. I rid myself of every bleeding false heart. Until I reach my core. My untouched center. The beauty of who I was but who I could not be. The carnage now beside me as I breathe into the core of myself again for the first time.
Voices that dissipate beyond the dark layer. I am cut open now. The doll has been punctured, broken into, and has bled. The act of ventriloquism is over. I will not be resuscitating the trauma. I will not be reliving it in the projections of my lived mind. The wicked show is over. She has been gunned down. She has been stabbed. She has been assassinated 48 times. She is dead.
And as a final warning to those who seek to disturb the eternal sleep of my corpses past. I no longer kill myself to make life for you. I am no longer my scorned enemy. You have gotten so used to me pointing the gun at my own head without any instruction from you. You have reaped the benefits of my darkened trauma. I kept killing myself in small instances to make room for the disturbance of you. You have played a crucial part in the resuscitation of my pain. But, now that I have secured the positioning of my true spine and the cage of bones that lies in the crest of my purest heart, you have become the new enemy. The new target.
Tread carefully.
The gun is not pointed at my head anymore.