to be young

as my fist tightens and my blue veins jut out, my wrist quivers with pressure. the meaty contents of my hand molds to the force of my tiny finger tips. warm, thick blood wraps around and runs down my forearm like rain on a pane of glass.

as i stand in my towel they don't notice me watching them scream. the heart in my right hand goes unnoticed as voices raise and feelings are hurt. thrashing back and fourth like paint strewn on a canvas their argument tears me apart. i want to scream, "hold me!". But i know they wouldn't listen. the battle has taken them, and they have forgotten who they are. and with this, they have forgotten me and the warm organ in my hand.

i paint my face with the blood of my possession. an object i massage and admire. i look to it with love because i know i can destroy it. stabbing through it's leathery skin with my dull finger nails. i have extracted it from the body of my love. the one i loved from day one. but as i lift the heart out, and hold it as a separate thing, the body grows cold and gray.

they scream.
fighting means leaving.
and i will be left alone.
i can't control it. the fight has taken over.
but i don't mean what i say. these insecurities aren't mine.
i can't begin to offer the bloody heart in my hand. it's the only one I have.

and as he leaves i know i have failed.
and i am all alone: mess in hand, and broken heart on the floor.