She held her life in her own hands as if it were a bleeding heart.
With each drop, another breath lost.
Thumping anxiety, dripping the stress into a pool of self pity,
Rinsing off the excess fat of calamities; she felt the lumps of pain.
A sponge could not soak up the guilt, only the red of hatred.
She wanted to drop it now; the warmth of blood was nauseating.
Pulse was faint, almost invisible, just throbbing without much hope.
A taste of the fluids could poison any snake.
She felt the heart slipping from her grip, losing color, hardening.
At last, the stone tumbled to the floor, doomed to beat no more.
 
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