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 I always thought that loves would unravel these things within their own time. I want to tell them them all. I want to spill my guts out open on the table. Get to know me! Please! I want to give them the opportunity to know. I want them to know the things I want to know about them. So I wrote them all out. Now they don’t have to try. In writing there. I don’t think it’ll change much though. No matter how much I want you to appreciate the precious artwork I’ve done with my organs out on the table, you seem disgusted with the best parts of me. My gooey bloody insides out there and you choose to ignore every part that isn’t my heart. You never loved me. You just wanted my organs out for you to explore and play on your adventure to hold my heart in your hands. Squeeze it and force feed the dripping blood into my mouth as I growl and gag in pain. You said you wanted to see me suffocate on myself as you have been suffocated by me. You wanted to see me bleed. See me choking as I attempt to stitch myself up with an alcohol drentched needle and dental floss I found in a brief respite from your hands. You never liked my art anyways. I made this for you I thought. I arranged all my insides in this perfect little heart outside of my body for you. I thought you loved me, I thought that you knew me and that you wanted to know all of my favorites. I knew all of yours. I knew everything. I thought I could just tell you and you’d remember. I thought that it didn’t matter that you didn’t ask. That you wanted this. I guess in many ways you did. You wanted me outside of myself for you. You wanted me to cut myself open and show you everything, but not so that you could sew me up and tell me you loved me more. But to prove to yourself that my insides aren’t as beautiful as my body. Definitely not as beautiful as the girl you’d get down on your knees for. Not as beautiful as the girl you saw when we were together together. You never saw past the beauty of me in your bed picturesque and glowing. My insides were wilted and rotten to you. You never loved me. You held my heart in your hands, ripped it out of my body and drowned me in the blood I pumped for you. I still have a scar you know. Up my stomach, a clean pink gash with crooked hatch marks forming intersections on an otherwise perfect cut. My hasty stitching left some real damage I guess. It’s hard to cut myself open now. I’ll never get that clean of a cut again. It was only for you, and you left me. Because to you, that scar was uglier than what it revealed. 

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