Short Stories

Holes

Like cutting holes in my heart with the razor I hold in my pocket in hope the inky black will ooze out the the red.
The red being me and black being that dark voice that comes up at the worst of times.
No physical formalities contradicting emotional boundaries.
Because I need to breath...breathing being a physical formality to keep my body alive and my heart beating 89 beats the minute but slowing.
Weighed down by that voice.
Those emotional boundaries met when I try to take a breath and cry out, but nothing comes out...all locked in my lungs where the blood flows in and out into my arms and my head and everywhere.
Contributing to the earthquake I feel in complete stillness, or maybe it's the razor holes in my heart.
Expelling it but also me, mostly me for it is in my mind, my thoughts, but also it... expressing its frustration and annoyance for my unending unwillingness to succumb to it to making me lash out with that same anger and frustration to others.
Black mixing with red.
Another hole.
Is there even anything left?
Not much, as I take the razor to my head.