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8 Knives

The first knife hits hard on the heart.

Jolting me backwards,

To a pain that I’d already seen coming.

The second knife is expected.

I wait patiently for it to sear my heart.

Almost smiling.

The third knife is obvious.

Hurts a little more than the first,

Making me wonder why all this.

The fourth knife fades with the pain,

Creating worse case scenarios,

Tormenting the heart even more.

The fifth knife blurs my thinking,

The attacks make no sense,

Hurts like hell anyway.

The sixth knife makes me angry,

Enough of the torture,

Can’t utter a single word though.

The seventh knife is a goal,

Achieved without efforts,

Is anything left of me anymore?

The eighth knife moves closer to break me,

Yet I take a step ahead,

For it to twist and break me more.

 
 
 

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