Crack my chest open and devour the muscle underneath, if you please. Sink your teeth into it and let the poison slip into your veins. I do not call myself destruction, but most times I don’t speak at all.
Maybe if the tainted blood finally reaches your skin, you could understand the consuming emptiness, maybe you could understand the fear.
There are whispers under my skin, deep in my bones that drown out every good feeling and makes sunlight cool to the touch. I can display them on paper, I could write them in ink, or in blood. I could paint you murals and conjure it through symphonies.
But you could never know the poison, unless it was already sitting in the coils of your brain, or in the marrow of your bones.
Go ahead, though, try. Let your tongue curl around my heart and taste it. Let it run down your chin and wonder what it would feel like to be swimming in your veins.
I’ll warn you though, you wouldn’t like it.