Flesh by Hawra’a Khalfan

But it’s;
the gossip,
the lies,
the deceit,
the arguments,
the tears,
the broken friendships,
the heartache. 

It’s
the trouble of picking up
all the pieces
of all those experiences
and
reshuffling your meat into place.

It’s
the angst of trying to sew together
a muscle
that’s supposed to beat
as long as you’re alive.

It’s
the sincerity in your pain
the innocence in your darkness
the anchoring of your freedom
the tongue thrashing your flesh.

It’s the beauty of the deficiency
the attraction to longing.
It’s the callousness of
your beating hearts
to be pumping blood
through the veins of living cadavers.

For what is
a heartbeat
without a soul?

Where is the beauty in suicide?

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