with every beat

regret, it hurts
a disgust with your own insides
an incision in the gut
bleeding out, but not enough to kill you.
just enough to seep throughout
outside of the veins
touching your bones

its never like christmas morning
not anymore
instead its like a chilling phonecall
one you overhear, and you know its bad news

listening to irregular sighs
half sentences
quiet mumblings
this is not what you want.