Granite Eyes -- Imploding

You're in my stomach again.
You're there -- growing.
I felt you take root, and I've counted the days. I've named you.
I rest my hand lightly on my abdomen, and I feel you there.
My skin is bulging, stretching, wishing you were on the other side.
You're an ache.
You're there -- growing.

I fear the consequences of your final departure.
You'll always be inside of me. (This is not what I meant when I leaned over in the dark and whispered lightly in your ear, "I want you inside of me.")
But when you leave me, you'll still be inside of me. (But inside of her. Really inside of her.)

My stomach is boiling.
I take this as a sign that you share in my rage, in my hatred of her.
We are even more, in this fire.
We scare me, our murderous hands.
She is not safe.
Is this the price she is willing to pay for my tender moments? (You're mine. You're inside of me.)

I rise and fall, with my chest.
The high point, there is none.
But the valleys alternate... rage, despair, and rage, and despair.

Get out while you can, if you must.
But you're already inside of me.
And I know you're not willing to kill me.
But are you willing to love me?

(I love you.)