Maybe

My heart is heavy, so I take it out and lay it on the table.
The veins as stories, the blood as tears, the rhythm of a thousand tragedies.
I raise my hand to strangle it, the hammer to forever silence it.
The organ splinters, the fragments at peace.
I gaze out at the contents, and am content that they have spilled.
I repair the empty vessel and restore it.
It is very cold in hell, my only thought. I walk away, my hand clutching.
Just enough rope to hang myself.