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Autopsy of a Bitter Heart

My thoughts vomited upon the page. 
No rhyme, no reason, no beauty;
Raw, bare muscle and torn flesh.
No cute love hearts colored red and pink;
No, this is the heart of human anatomy. 
The heart bared with a “Y” incision on a stark,  cold, metal table.
The heart that glistens with swollen purple veins and arteries that pulse with black blood. Chest torn asunder with metal hands. The white of rib bones broken like twigs, leaking viscous blood and bile. 
The autopsy will not locate the cause of the death of My soul, the death of My innocence and flowery poetic phrases. 
Murder committed with words and indifference leave no physical marks.
The scars are there, wherever the soul resides…the mind, the heart, the bowels. The scars are there and they build atop of one another until my soul has its armor. 
Armored with tough, white ropes of healing flesh…shrouded with remembered pain. 
It's not pretty. It's not rhythmic and metered...
No flowers here, only weeds and poisoned leaves. 
Words laced with the taint of bitter arsenic…foaming from a perverse choking throat.
I vomit this bitterness on the parchment…leaving me empty and new.

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