This is not a competition
for who has suffered the most.
You are bleeding all over the table,
and you, more than anyone, knew
that this was going to happen.
You are not the first and not the last;
and you will shrivel smaller
drier more bitter
until at last you disappear,
unless you look straight at the
coursing throbbing hated heart of pain
let it fill your body, every cell,
dive deep into its lava center,
and thrown back onto the earth,
gasping for air,
thinking you're going to die too:
the mess that's left,
unrecognizable
but still you.