you are an organ.

It soaked the tiles a tainted, phlegmatic crimson. The residue of which would grow stale and duller with age. It would seep through the crevices and the cracked fragments of ceramic and ingrain itself into the walls and the floors and the ceilings of every room and hall and storey. It stains the particles one by one, by one, by one forming this half-living organism. A house with veins in it's walls. This empty shell of a being, not such an entity, as it is a part of you. This is the membrane you reside behind as the residue smears across your skin to your tiles into your walls. This is the organism you created, you fabricated from your entwining scars, an organism which acts as a preservative, a concealer for the life you truly lead; you are the heart that aches.