Heavy when it opens,
when it splits apart and nothing pours out,
the blood, coagulated and dark,
it has been hardened over time.
Suffering and painful,
the feelings of intensity and rigidity,
it has been long past boiled,
and not what it used to be.
Something different, some unseen shape,
some other feeling without a name,
it can’t be mind anymore,
it must not be mine anymore,
I don’t want it
Holding it it in the open space,
cold and black and rough,
not soft and inviting as it once was,
those comfortable times,
those that everyone desires,
when things happen as intended.
Heavy when it is stitched closed,
beating and moving again,
at first, slowly, and then faster,
picking up bursting speed,
pumping and pumping,
it will grow again.