The heart bleeds the most, they say.
I dare not disagree.
There is nothing to disagree with.
It is true and known and seen.
But it does not bleed for a wound,
They do not allow it to be wounded.
It does not bleed like my skin does,
Like a nervously bitten lip does.
It does not ache quite so tangibly.
It throbs and burns and aches, still.
And every inch of skin envies.
Flesh wounds hurt, do they not?
Only blood washes that envy away -
Blood from the assassin's blade.
The blade that only means to reach the heart.
They all scream then.
The heart does not.
It does nothing but what it does always-
Fight to keep alive.
And bleed.
Every pulse thundering into silence.
That is the thing about the heart - to fight and bleed, or to not. To tire and make live, or to die and kill. There is no other way.
~~~
[DATE: 26/09/2024; WORDS: 162]
YOU ARE READING
The Burning Rose
Historical FictionA MAHABHARATA RETELLING ~~~ All the other flowers in the garden were brought up to envy the rose. Maybe shun it even. And admire it, too. Unusual ways. Too-red petals, too-sharp thorns, too-sweet fragrance. If only each flower did not have a mind...
