Medic.

You were my medic as you made the final incision and cut my heart in two. Kept the biggest piece for yourself, the first time you had ever made a decision, now my blood bleeds blue. You doctored the romance, all of it untrue, that made me fall for you. Scalpel sharp, and surgery cold, as you transplanted trust into me, but it was misconstrued. Now I lie waiting in the operating room hoping to be fixed by you; your malpractice resulted in the malignancy of me, which you could never undo. Tremors, shakes, and quivers, ulcers, but somehow your love remains my hunger pain, sprained my trust in you whenever you would stray, but your attention was still enough to make me feel renewed. Now I suffer from the aches of arrhythmia as my heart still beats for you, disengaged from all my favourite places, with my life in dire need of review. My liver threatens to leave me abandoned, yet I still refuse to admit that I have taken to drinking for two. We were a pair that should have never separated; you were like my other lung, now tell me how am I supposed to breathe without you? The psychology of me is not that difficult to comprehend, as I sit and try, and wait in vain to be my own best friend. The blood that courses through my veins, sometimes it feels pretend; all my internal organs failed at once, now that we have come to an end. Serotonin, dopamine have left along with you, the only way for me to feel complete is through medication and its use. With the paintings of my life slightly askew, I find it difficult at times to breathe, instead of seeking out what I know makes me happy, I prefer to remain subdued. With all of your surgical tools, this tumor will be hardest to erase, the emptiness I surround myself with, feels as permanent as a temporary tattoo. I will survive, and find myself in the recovery room ready to remove these bandages and heal, without you, there is still a me; the beauty within me is not something that I should ever conceal. My body refuses to grow cold and wear out simply because my life is devoid of you, this cadaver has nine lives, and on you I only wasted two. Soon enough you will be replaced like all the others before you; painted my world with blacks and greys for you, now only the brightest hues and colours dye my mood.