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    somewhere between my stomach and my throat there is a wound the size of a twin bed. the type almost too small to fit a body, a thing so fluid and large and red hot with lust. there’s blood on these sheets. but it’s so warm, this bed, this gaping hole. a strange place. sometimes i reach my fist deep inside to see how bad it still pains. sprawling my limbs edge to edge. twisting my fingers around measuring what’s left to scar. it is still tender to the touch, but only on the days i remember its presence. there’s blood on these sheets. no good on the eyes. oh, my eyes! what i would have done to have unseen a heart so drained and devoid of life. i would have never laid my head there. i would have rotted the wood beneath my back and sent us both to purgatory. i would have. there’s blood on these sheets. who is to launder this damage, truly? perhaps grief, enveloping me while i sleep here. and still i tend to this salted wound. covering myself.