Blood
It drips, and drips, and drips — until it reaches the depths of my grief. The endless pit of sorrow and regret, where no air exists in the lungs and no blood spills. It only rots and decays. It burns so softly yet it pierces through the skin. It slaughters the bones and veins of my being, cutting through my flesh, reminding me of all that I had left behind. All that haunted my very soul.
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Grief, I suppose I could call it my friend, has never left my side, ever since I was a child. It was always there, beside me. Its whispers would melt my body and evaporate my blood, leaving behind the scorching red marks of its absence.
I would always listen to it so carefully, so whole-heartedly. As if it were the only voice of reason in my heart. Shoving regret down my throat by force, its thorns would tear my throat apart. Blood, as was its nature — would flow so peacefully, it wouldn’t gush out — no, it would flow, drip, drip, drip, one by one.
Choking on my glistening red blood, I found it to be serene, to be so pure and undamaged that even my grief left my side to flow alongside it. And as the blood stopped flowing, as my body was left drained of its life — and as grief had left me — who did I have left in this world? Who had I given such an audience to? My blood — it had left me with nothing, and yet, even nothing was Peace.
