It is strange, and so so far from my understanding:
that still I should want to bury my
face within your ***** (and yours alone at that),
when still your hand holds tight to the knife so gracefully lodged within my abdomen.

For it was by you that I learned there is somewhere I may rest my head when I find it too heavy with sorrow,
and yet, it was also you that brought me the greatest sorrow; the only sorrow I have felt was too great for me to bear alone, and in it, bid me the quickest farewell.
Never, before now, have I found myself in need of somewhere to lay my head, nor someone to hold tight to and to be held tight by.

And I know, it was not your intention to bring about pain,
rather it was solely in hope of ending such that you carried this out.
But it seems that what you left below my chest was laden with what before ate at your heart, and I see no other fate before me than to suffer what you suffered; you have given me your ill, in hopes of once more finding health.

And it is strange, that despite the violent shaking in my hands, I harbor nothing in me other than the wish that wellness again should find you.