Crying and Kicking

Crying and Kicking

I wanted to cry. I wanted to kick. I want to cry and kick the cunt until there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. How you made me feel. Cry and kick. I was in pain. I bore no scars. Outside was pale. I was crying. The tears came. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing to cry about. I wasn’t in pain. Not that you could see. No blood. No bones. No pain. Bleeding inside instead. Bleeding blood, you can’t see it. Cry and kick the cunt. Nothing. Nothing but shame. Crying now. A steady stream. A stream. A river. My blood does the same. Inside. My blood follows like a stream or a river into the hole inside me. Where there was my stomach, there is blood. Where there was my liver, there is blood. Where there was my heart, is nothing. Exploded. Imploded. Gone. Nothing. Nothing to cry about. Nothing to kick. Must kick something. Kick the cunt. Kick the bitch. Kick her. Kill her. Nothing. Nothing. The blood gets heavy. A weight. A great weight that my knees can’t bear. My legs can’t bear. No more. I need a knife to cut. Not for her. Not for the cunt. A knife to cut me. Drain the blood away until I am nothing again. Until I feel nothing again. I can’t stop crying. Crying. Crying and kicking. I’m kicking the door. I feel nothing. My toes aren’t there. I feel nothing but the blood that fills my body. I’m so heavy. And tired. I must stop crying. I must stop kicking. I vomit. No blood. Nothing. Nothing. No red. No blood. I stop crying. I stop kicking. I stop.