Tempestuous Love.

I rip out my heart and hand it to him. It’s pulsating and blanketed in pus, infected from all of the unhealed wounds inflicted upon it over the years. He stands with it cradled in his palms, cupping it tightly like de León would have water from The Fountain of Youth: determined not to let a drop spill.

He watches it beat, brings it up to eye level and studies its languid rhythm, watching it steadily slow and become irregular. He smirks, turns his hands over and lets it fall to his feet where it lands with a resounding thud: the calcified torment in each vessel weighing it down. He lifts his foot and stares into my face, his naked heel hovering just over that crucial part of me. I scream in protest and he laughs, stomping down as hard as he’s able to, squelching it, sending pus and blood flying in every direction.

I bend down to pick it up and wraps me in a tight hug, weakening my appetence to protect my core. I stand there, impotent in his warm embrace, concerned with nothing but him and his love for me.

As soon as I’m exhaustively unconcerned for myself he steps back and looks down at the faintly oscillating mass between us. Before the palpitations stop completely he scoops it up and thrusts it back into my chest where it reattaches itself to me and commences pumping the pain and love back through my body.

He looks down at the green slime covering his hands and sticks his tongue out, running his palms over it’s surface. He slurps and drinks it, hedonistically appreciating every drop of my prolonged misery. I clutch my chest as my sternum heals over and scream once more, this time from the pain. He lifts my face to his by my chin and kisses me deeply. I take it in fully, relishing the rare passion.

He pulls away sharply, steps back and dissipates. I know he won’t return until it’s time for me to expose myself again. When it’s time for me to hand my heart to him and allow him to crush it once more. And I wait impatiently, longingly, willingly, for the next opportunity for him to do so.