I did an autopsy on love.
Scalpel in hand, I made the first incision—
Cutting through skin once flushed with warmth,
A layer of tender memories peeled back, exposing
Veins tangled with red ribbons of hope and fear.
The rib cage opened slowly,
Bones that once protected its fragile heart,
Now brittle with mistrust, fractured
By words never meant to be spoken.
I extracted the heart,
Still holding traces of laughter,
Residue of tenderness clung,
thin as tissue, torn where once it pulsed alive.
Blood clotted in resentment, arteries congested
with the weight of words swallowed,
the blockage of years never released.
The lungs, shriveled,
Collapsed under the weight of promises
That were made to be kept but eroded by time,
Breaths once shared in whispers,
Now empty echoes reverberating against hollow walls.
Stomach lined with bitterness,
Unable to digest the betrayals—
The poison of unmet expectations,
Festering until the lining tore, spilling all that could not be forgiven.
Nervous system overloaded,
Neurons that once sparked delight,
Burnt out by repetition, routine,
Leaving numbness in the places where thrill used to live.
The cause of death:
A slow unraveling, a quiet disintegration—
a stillness in the sterile light,
a body that once pulsed with longing,
now just a relic, an anatomy of loss.
Love perished not from a single blow,
But from a thousand tiny fractures, each one too small to notice—
Until everything fell apart.
