To Who Finds Me

By Rose Bence

Lover,

This heart is on life support. It can no longer do the heavy lifting, not even a little. Salt water sloshes in its four chambers as it laboriously trudges along like soldiers ripped and torn asunder from battle. Faces black from filth and burnt flesh. They trudge.

Like their boots, lost in the mud among the vomit, blood, and dead. I am lost. I have failed.

The infinite weariness engulfs like the black tar mud of the front lines, smothering lungs.

I have failed. I have given up the ghost.

Can you resuscitate? Defibrillate? maybe a transplant.

2 thoughts on “To Who Finds Me

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