A witch once had to kill a heart.
She had to cut it out of a chest
heavily suffocating,
for it was shining too bright
and too golden
out of infectious eyes
making a soul leak.
A witch reached out for it.
And for the golden sparkle
that felt so lonely
and so lost
in a world gone mad.
She removed the ribbons and the fabric
from the suffocating chest.
She opened knots and ties,
and reached out with her needles
to remove the skin that had once shivered
so lovely when touched.
She fixed the bloody ends
right on those rips
to reach inside
and kill the heart.
To rip it out.
And kill the light.
Kill the words of love,
in thoughts of care.
Kill the heart of a mother
in a world that does not support life anymore.
Kill the heart of a lover
in a world that burns the flesh and drains the blood.
For no more red on those cheeks
and sparkling in those eyes.
For no more singing,
no more yearning,
but silent breaths,
just so to suffocate no more.
„But you know“, my witch giggles into this upsetting tale. „It grew back.“
„Really?“
„Yes, always!“ She sighs. „Whenever eyes met, when skin was touched, when the chest was hugged, it grew back. It‘s fucking tough to kill a heart! Possible, but tough.”
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