7.7

I can't open my heart any wider or the bugs would flock in, drawn to the smell of searing flesh. It's the end of a life, you say, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Mine is just beginning. What you see in me (hurt, pain, trouble) is just the birthing pains of a new man. What you call problems are what I call complications: I'm a breach birth and I'm far too large. The caesarean must be performed from the inside, with fingernails. So no, I can't let you in to my heart. The crack is all you get. Put your eye against it and peer in like a voyeur, I'd you dare. All you'll see is a me, trying to escape.