Plenty of fish in the sea, you say to console.
A consolation convoluted by the trauma of a fresh cut heart.
Plenty of knives in the butcher block,
my twisted brain sputtered back.
So many ways to wound myself,
Cut, mar, slice, and splay.
The paring knife will slit and slide,
happy dance, bloody play.
The bread knife will leave stringy trails of fleshy entrails,
strands and sinews, this sinners skin left asunder.
The butcher knife will slice precise and clean,
gushing wounds and glistening teeth.
Fear not fine philanderer, you've yet so many
phalanges to lose.
Keep your head up and your mouth open,
drink the sea of love's abuse.
Blood is currency and current in the sea you swim,
cut yourself to pieces on love's whim.
You, you cut me and gut me the best of all,
your knife is just right, not big, not small.
Slides right between my woven ribs,
when I opened my heart, you slipped right in.
My face pale and your blade red,
I could be angry but I thank you instead.
I put my pen where you had been,
and with the only alchemy I know,
I turned blood into ink, and wrote my soul
on the cold, stone floor.
I turned rock bottom into my easel,
today I wrote of love with evil.
Draw my ink from a bloody well,
today's the day I smirked in hell.