Talking to the Mirror

Will I ever be loved the same?

I found myself in a conversation with the mirror,

my cheeks damp,

cooling.

There’s something familiar about feeling the rupture of your organs,

pumping the blood throughout

your body, a vessel.

That heart I had stopped that day

you left,

and my blood went cold, dreading

seeing you leave.

The you who’s eyes stared down at mine.

Your digits dancing, caressing my pericardium.

For when you broke away,

you pushed in just a second before,

and attached to those talons were the tissues

of my tentricles.

So when I see my eyes in the mirror,

I don’t see myself stare back.

I only see the shell that was once loved

with her chest still leaking

from the organ you had cut.