turning to the night.

Sometimes in life, we are willing to go down the narrow walkway into the slaughterhouse, knowing that it is to be our demise. We do this with the preconceived notion that if we endure the pain of having our flesh violently torn from our bones, and cold metal thrust deep into our chest to tear out our beating heart before our crying eyes – we would find at the end of this journey something so beautiful, so unknown, and yet so entirely wonderful that we would be willing to do it again and again. We are so brave to walk that path, so fearless, and so utterly blind. You are all I think about. Whether you deserve my love or not you are always in my head. You haunt me unto the point of insanity.

I am on my knees, praying to God saying, I see why I had to endure such suffering. I understand what knowledge I have gained that I could not have learned in any other way. I know with assuredly that I have been strengthened, and have grown. The question is not why, for I know why. The question is what. What must I do now? A fleshless body and a missing heart leaves you little options in life other than to be buried deep beyond all sight to live in misery for an eternity, or to wait for the hundreds of thousands of days till the skin grows back and a new heart is grown in a secret tree in a forest; hidden by thorny brambles and poisonous vegetation.

It is raining now. I can hear it tapping against my window.

I pretend that it is you.

I am grateful that it went by so fast. I am so passionate; it is in my nature. I know that God was being merciful to me, but I almost wish he had let me stay in that butchery until I had been consumed to dust. I am nothing but empty bones. Cursed to a silence of a broken heart, and forgotten by all who used to know me.

What must I do now?

We walk the steps of Eden’s path, our hearts we do not know,

With every breath —it feeds the wrath, from demons down below.

But had not yet been quite prepared, with book, or tale, or pen,

That never had a soul been spared, within the love of men.

We weep to feel the broken heart, that lives outside our chest,

That when devoured – torn apart, the aching never rests.

~C