Tell-Tale Tales the Heart Insists on Retelling

The heart possesses myriad tales to impart — tell-tale tales, if you will — narratives that reach deep within the chest, seize hold of one's very being, and extract the voice through sheer dramatic necessity.

These stories burrow into the cavity of consciousness, establishing residence where speech once dwelt.

But then you bloody well ripped it out, didn't you?
Tore the organ free whilst I was rather enjoying its rhythm.

Yet still, it beats on — severed yet insistent — that tireless muscle continuing its percussion beneath the floorboards:

thump-thump, thump-thump —

each contraction a word in the tale it refuses to abandon, each pulse an accusation, the rhythm transformed from internal symphony to external damnation, beating, beating, always beating,
telling its tale through the only language left to it.

Now please, go wash your hands.