by Hunter Hodkinson
He buries his wounded
fangs deep into my chest
and with a hesitant yank
rips my still beating heart
from me.
I bleed out on the pavement
watching him apologize
and frantically sob,
as he slithers away.
First the clouds go
becoming the same color
as the sky
whites to blues
and then the leaves
the trees
brown to green.
There is a long
breadcrumb trail
leading to my deflating
body;
little heart nuggets
I cut from him over
the course of the year.
All the strength he had left
was used to ripping my
untouched, strong,
beating heart out.
He did it quick,
like I should’ve to him.
He did it earnestly
and respectful
like a band aid.
I dilly dallied,
and let a pile form
from red matter.
Whereas I implode
all at once
he’s been walking around
deflated,
little whispers of air
being let out
over months.
He unknowingly
left someone
with knives for fingers
handle his heart
and I was
to complicit to warn him.
Dried juices of his love
are sticky beneath my finger
nails
and mine drips
from his mouth
down his chin
like ripe apples
in the dawn of summer.
Hunter Hodkinson is interested in literary and self reflective prose and poetry, and often tries to reflect this in his own work. Currently he has no official publications but has been recognized by a few local community colleges. He is a transplant New Yorker, born and raised in Ohio.