Bite my heart down to its very core.

There is not much left there. At least, it feels that way right now. Pulpy mess, a few withered, drying seeds that may have flourished into branches of elegant, eloquent sentences and full-bodied works of art.

Nothing to them now. Nothing to do with them except spit them out, coarsely, cruelly, between your teeth.

Keep biting. Keep chewing.

Before, I would have tried to shield what is left. Before, I would have pleaded, argued, apologized for what is done to me and what people have forced into my hands and claimed is of my own doing.

See me stand and declaim excuses for the sake of every wound pierced into me, held fast at the end of the blade as the attacker insists I go on, speak louder, speak faster, accept my guilt, make it part of me, tell everyone just how fervently and firmly I enjoy cutting myself in two.

Keep biting. Keep chewing.

Lick the blood off your fingers.

There is very little to enjoy in being me, on these bad, bitter days. The deaths of people like me are either applauded or swept under the rug, briskly dismissed as unsightly, minimizing and mocking massacres.

What is left — the glittering treasures of fleeting, former days of glory: my grandmother’s heritage and my family’s history, the spice and spark that we’ve guarded jealously for months and years and centuries — you easily pry from my hands.

More guilt to press on my shoulders.

Selfish.

Greedy.

It looks better on you than me. It sounds better from you than me.

Keep biting. Keep chewing.

I think there’s a little still clinging to the very core. Pulpy mess, dribbling dreams, the occasional bold-faced lie about being okay, being brave, being strong, being tough, not crying, not feeling, not worrying every single moment of the day about what to do and what to say and carrying the weight of a nation (so many, so various, so unheard) hoisted on my shoulders at any given time.

Doing it wrong.

Living it wrong.

Believing it wrong.

Bite my heart down to its very core.

Bite it and toss it over your shoulder, withered wasted apple of a possession, so heavy in my chest to be treated with such easy disdain.

There is little else I can do today but simply watch.