The Blood Flows Through


francesca woodman

francesca woodman

The sound of my own heartbeat sickens me. I am afraid of it.

When my windows are closed and I can’t hear the stream of the midnight cars zooming in and out of my consciousness,  I am awakened by the constant thud and pump of my unbalanced heart.

It sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

I close my eyes and cannot concentrate on anything else, it sounds alien to me. Like an invading force, disrupting my peace, tearing the silence to pieces.

My heartbeat is not poetic, it is uneven and loud. Irregular and broken. Angry and thrustful.

I can’t bear the sound of anyone else’s heartbeat. When lovers lay in the after light of ecstasy, naked and gasping for breath, they rest their heads naturally against each others chests.

I can’t stand the thought of that. For I cannot take the pressure of ones head, ones thoughts, ones body resting on mine for comfort.

It’s not comforting to me, and it certainly won’t be for them.


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