I cradle my own heart as if it were both weapon and prayer, pulsing and spilling its truth through my fingers. The mask hides my face, but not the red river that betrays me. To detach is to bleed differently... to peel spirit from flesh, reason from desire... yet still the pulse insists on being felt. In this moment I am both executioner and saint, holding what wounds me, what saves me. My heart outside my body teaches me: to feel is to fracture, to detach is to burn, and to live is to walk between the two, carrying the dripping weight of myself.
An1, 2025
laoda
