an autopsy of us: lacerations of the heart

there's a knife in my chest, plunged through ribs, moulded into my heart—a dagger placed there the first time you touched me. your body on mine, each kiss, each closeness—impales me deeper. 

but i know stories of survival, of letting the knife be, as i know if i remove it my blood vessels will be severed and in death i cannot know you anymore. 

my blood clots around your blade, my heart beats vigorously at your sight. i keep myself alive so i'll never lose you but you're afraid of blood and run at the sight of my silhouette, the only difference now between mine and a cadaver's is my veins remain warm.

it was a foolish mistake to leave your knife alone though, as my fractured bones have used it like k-wire scaffolding and my heart has grown accustomed to its sharpness. doctors tell me to remove it, but i'll refuse for eternity, as after all these years i'm not sure my heart can beat any other colours than black or blue—let alone without you.