It's not that
my heart
has been ripped
from my chest
leaving
a gaping  hole.
My heart
remains
inside my ribcage
necrotic
gangrenous
rotten
infection spreading.

When I say
I run
until
my feet bleed
I am lying.
In truth
I continue running
long after mere blood
as every inch of skin
is scraped off the soles
then the flesh
until
I am running
on my bare bones
and my unceasing footfalls
grind them to dust.

I describe
the way I cut
into my skin
without mentioning
that I ran
out of space
on that surface
long ago.
Now my knives
dig deeper
severing tendons
and muscles
and when those are done
I start tearing
pieces
out of my flesh
so  I resemble
a half-eaten
carcass.

The word "bleeding"
does not describe
the torrent
that pours from me
like ink from a broken pen
no
like water exploding
from a crack in a pipe
no
like a floodgate
opening
letting all the liquid out and leaving behind
a muddy landscape that eventually dries
becoming scored with spiderweb cracks.

It's not that
my bones
are breaking.
None of them
are whole
anymore
what's breaking now
are the pieces
smaller and smaller
they are sharp, tiny shards
piercing my dead heart
falling from my soleless feet, a trail behind me as I run
slicing into me from the inside as I assist them from without
swept along by the red flood
to lodge in my mind.