01.02.24
When your heart bled, I would dig through your skin to find the thorn stuck within. Crimson stained fingertips and torn flesh.
Who was it that hurt you like this?
A common occurrence, thorns piercing deeper with every heart beat. You give me the blame for the thorns found within your skin, but-
how could I be the one at fault, when they're only ever found from within?
Your thorns are your own, roots beginning from your soul, strangling that God-given light you no longer hold. My hands are no match for the depths of your self-inflicted pain, it tears you open from the inside out, drawing blood from your veins.
Were you born this twisted? Were we all?
Like the goat whose horns grew into his own skull, so your thorns grow into your own heart, a growth we must cull. Your roots constrict the very life that you breathe, nurturing its own with a gentle ease.
Is this your fate? Will it now be mine?
YOU ARE READING
Scrambled.
Short StoryA plethora of short stories, poetry & snippets of books I'll never write.
