It was a thing. A thing to keep.

There once was an old man. He took a knife and put it to his chest. He prodded and poked at the sagging skin, played with the greying hairs strewn across his breast. Then he took the knife and pushed it in, metal breaking skin and flesh, wedging in his core. A pause. A breath. Then sawing down. Knife in hand, blood from veins. The man continued to cut himself, to break his bones until his heart was bare. Slick with gore he cut it out. Empty, bleeding and a little lost, with knife and heart in hand. From his shelf he took a jar and placed them both within.


~ by Ape on September 22, 2012.

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