Sword and the Heart

“How does the sword feel against the wounded heart?” (I asked as my heart beat out a rhyme against my chest)

he looked at me–the ache in his navy iris clear–and rested his fist against his empty soul

“Do not ask how it feels unless you want to experience the cold of the medal against your tight skin.”

(I stared at him, mouth open, for what other words could I possibly let slip past my bloodied tongue?)

“The scarlet ichor and the ruby eyes of the devil is what you see when that blade is against you.”

(This time I gasped but nothing else could I choke out)