I'm still learning what my heart is for

Friday ushers in another week's end with the bored air of a construction worker directing traffic. This day, just like every other, merely bleeds into the next... and the next... and the next... until life resembles nothing more than one giant fucking hemorrhage that will ultimately prove lethal. The passage of time offers select variables, sure — an anticoagulant here, a tourniquet there, but the dwindling of the platelet count never stops; it only ever speeds or slows.

The trick is in knowing when to accept that enough blood has been let. The truth is that you may never let enough.

All these years pooled at our feet, no acceptance in sight, and I have spent so much of my life splashing around for something I mistakenly thought could be found in the waning warmth of that crimson puddle. When the last drop finally does drip, either from your veins or from mine, the finality should be absolutely, unarguably, conclusive. The survivor should not be left with a single "what if?" to wonder, nor any "if only" to regret. But — by God! — does that eventuality ever seem so impossibly distant.