Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
before i sank it in his chest, i would ask, "can i have it in my hands?"
i'd handle it delicately, ensuring he felt no agony. every incision meticulously crafted for aesthetic appeal is a visual symphony in the making.
i'd photograph pictures of his insides, praising the vibrant redness, before seizing my instrument to remove it.
i crave the sensation of holding it, its rhythmic pulsations echoing mine, whispering my name as if it were the only prayer he ever knew.
i'd place it in a wooden box beneath the twirling figures, their music a nostalgic melody familiar to every child.
i'd carefully sew him up immediately, employing the exquisite stitch passed down from my grandmother, each loop a testament to her skill.
his eyelids should do their thing. i have no patience waiting for his eyes to meet mine; i would take them off if they didn't and place him with the music box six feet underground.
i thought i was the one giving him life; how dare he not live?
