Out by 16, dead on the scene

Tomorrow night I’m going to find your heart buried under someone’s lawn. I will have to dig to get it— you’ll ask me how I knew it was there in the first place, I won’t have an answer. I will find your heart buried under someone’s lawn, and it will be encased in a glass jar. I won’t know how it got there, in the jar I mean. You’ll say, well I didn’t put it there. I’ll break the jar against the cold dirt. Your heart will still be beating, albeit barely. It will be bloody and raw, and will still smell metallic enough to be considered a living thing. You will ask for it back. I will look at you, and then at your heart, and back at you. You will have a gaping hole in the center and to the left of your chest. That wasn’t there before, I will wonder. Blood will soak through the fabric of your shirt and down your stomach. I will try to reach out with the hand not occupied by your heart, but you will step back and ask me not to touch you again. Again? I will look at my hand and notice how much blood is dripping off of my fingers. I won’t understand. I did not do this. I did not do this! You will only look at me, with glass eyes against moonlight. I will hate you for this. I will thrust my hand which holds your heart out towards you, but looking at you once more will only reveal that you’ve fallen to the ground. I won’t understand. I was going to give it back! I will remember the time my mother told me I am more of a bad omen than a daughter. I will think about how much I love you, and how these feelings cannot reverse time and stop you from laying dead in the dirt. I will dig up your heart from solid ground, but tonight I am the one burying it there. This is my doing, because everything I want is fated to rot. Tomorrow night, I will kill you.

Written by Ryan Stevens.

Girl with a boy name— enjoyer of all things peculiar and strange. Twitter @morphinelvr