self decisive
no, here you're doing it wrong. i'll take the scalpel from you and demonstrate, how to get right in between my ribs, how to cut just deep enough to graze my heart. your hand is on top of mine, on the scalpel handle. through the blade i can feel my heart beating like the wings of a dove and suddenly i'm glad i'm the one holding the blade. i know you would have felt pity, remorse, drawn it back before you could reach what we need you to.
i drive our hands forwards, and my heart is pierced. i think you may have started crying but i'm too overcome with the joy of this to notice. red, slick and hot, coats our hands. our breaths crowd the shared room between where our heads are bowed - yours shaky from tears, mine shaky from pain and relief. i guide your hand in, driving the blade deeper.
you know, i tell you, i cut my finger on one of these blades before. i was trying to replace it, the old one was snapped clean. i didn't know how to put the new blade on, and i sliced though the flesh of my thumb as if it was paper. that blade was sharper than any other i had felt before. i haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.
my blood on our joined hands is already starting to be sticky. it dries quickly, always faster than you'd think. there's a certain point where it becomes tacky, and clings onto anything that touches it. it's like the life held in it is still trying to grasp onto living. it's funny how the smallest parts of us are desperate to keep living, even when the whole wants nothing more than to stop.
i don't know how much longer i can hold onto you. my hands are growing weak. i've never wanted anything as much as i've wanted you
to drive that blade down harder now and put me out of my misery. my hands let go of yours. i can't hold on. i want you to kill me but i know you can't. you take pity on me. you have mercy. i wish you were as cruel as i want you to be.