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Heart of Stitches by Chozo
"There are always other fish in the sea". A quote that comes to mind so often when I ponder the many things in life. Light of the moon rains down on a hill, a cliche effect. At the bottom of the hill lays a shoreline, ripples of seawater calmly lash against the sand. I sit at the peak of the hill, leaning back with my left hand in the grass. The sky is starless, a blank canvas. In my other hand I grasp my own heart. Relatively small, warm. Keeping a slow steady beat. Blood dripped from my hand, trickling down my arm and such. With vague interest I watched the droplets of blood build into a stream, heading down the hill and reaching the ocean, spreading in the water like clouds of dust. No one is different, and if they are, only in trivial ways. There are so many people in the world, if one was lost they could easily be replaced. Just like technology, I am replaceable. I pull a needle through both edges of the scar upon my heart, beginning a new stitch. Once I finished, my fingers burning and sore, another stitch held my heart together. As if the other three stitches weren't enough.
"My heart will be nothing but stitches... in the end, and by that point it will be too ugly for anyone to want it."
"My heart will be nothing but stitches... in the end, and by that point it will be too ugly for anyone to want it."
More of an abstract poem/prose I wrote around October 28, 2011 when I was feeling rather down.
(c) Chozo
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