If you were to cut me open,
bleed me until my lips turned blue,
you’d find only words
pouring from the gash.

My blood has grown thick
with adverbs and dependent clauses,
muddled by you
and I and what-if.

I wish these words
would tattoo my body,
an ever-changing sea
of my heart and soul.

It’s nerve-wracking to share
those things I keep
tucked inside.

My legs and arms shake
in anticipation,
not sure whether to run
or reach out.

If you found me,
words spilling onto the carpet
in a mess of red,
would you take the time
to read them?

Would you scoop them up,
gently, and return them
to my open arms,
grown tired from holding
back the tide?

As I fade in and out,
two words
bubble to the surface.

____ and ___

mark my final moment.