The Beating Heart

I. He lies alone, on his back, the sheets twisting around his legs and ankles, like the rope. It bonds and binds, clinging with desperation, refusing to tear. The windows are closed, the burnt burning red curtains drawn tight. In the night, the moon dies dead, like usual, at this time, leaving the black, black, just the black. It is the black that swallows him and everything. Black ceilings, black walls, black sealed eyes and bloody black cries. Alone in the dark, twisted, tangled, trapped, dead forever, forever dead. Just those bloody black looks say it all. Forgotten, pushed away, patronized. He can only say one thing now, in the dead of the black.
Find me.
II. Everynight, the same terror, slicing through his eyes, through his legs. Feet cannot move, legs, no more, hips, in place, and eyes, stabbed shut with their nightly pins. It is no question the silent black tears drip down. But can anyone hear me? What do the people care? Just a trapped soul in a trapped, trapped world. Blocked by these people and their skeleton feelings, whipped vein hands, and organ tissue words. So soft. So soft, so sorry, so bloody sorry. One step forward, he falls into an empty abyss; one step backward, he falls up into a bottomless web. Everywhere, the knives slice, the dark, what is out there? Anything? Is life just a lie? Are people just a lie? He can touch their lives but they can’t see it. Is my existence just a lie? He wouldn’t be surprised.
He will never understand. That’s what they say. What they all say.
III. All it takes it the one to say it. To feel. To accept. Just to say something to him. To say, “Who the bloody hell cares?” And he can say.
I can see you.
IV. In the black, thick darkness, the hand reaches out. It is black from burns and scarred. The short bitten nails are uneven and the palms are callused and rough. A single ring rests on his middle finger. It is sterling silver, not that how it looks matters. Another hand reaches out. The nails are trimmed and manicured. The skin is feminine and washed, well taken care of. Light. Not dark like his. A single ring rests on the middle finger. It is sterling silver, not that how it looks matters. Not to him. To her, yes. Her hand just lies out, waiting for him. Just waiting. Even in his dark sight, he can see it. Her eyes speak to his dark sight,
“Who the bloody hell cares?”
V. She lies beside him that night, her head resting against his chest. Just to let him know. The darkness dies. The moon dead, reborn. A beating heart for him in the twisting pain of his darkness. Bringing a beating light to his darkness. He can’t sleep; not without her there. Her beating heart, in sync with his; the beauty of such light; open eyes, he can see.
He can see her beauty.
The beauty of her beating heart.

VI. There is the acknowledgement of knowing such a thing. It is not a disability, nor a weakness. It is strength. He sees not through his eyes, but through theirs. And then there is the acceptance of such a thing. And sharing your eyes for his to see.

Who is truly blind? Is it him? Or the bloody skeleton people?