The Cure That Killed Me

By Insha

Sometimes, I sit back and think—

How many times would a person have to cut their veins and arteries before they stop bleeding?

How many cuts would it take to completely drain a human body of all its blood

And leave the heart with nothing but a void?

The heart will finally get the rest it has been begging for all these years.

The heart will finally stop, breathe, and look around.

There will be no blood drowning it from the inside,

No clots suffocating it from the outside,

No impure blood it must struggle to purify.

There will be nothing left but itself, in all its glory.

The heart will stop feeling… or would it?

Would it still ache even if not a single drop of blood remained?

Would it still hurt, even without the pressure surrounding it?

Or would it scream at the person responsible for all the cuts?

What if the heart never wanted to rest,

But the person only thought it did?

What if, in trying to save the heart, the person killed it instead?

Because they did not realize—until it was too late—

That the very blood they saw as poison

Was the reason the heart kept beating.

Maybe the person only wanted what was good for them,

Not for the heart.

And that, in the end, was its death.

By Insha