My Valentine

To the beating of my heart, the slowing pulse in my fingers; To my desire for an unlabored breath, To my confidence once quickly shed then replaced by one anew, To the scraping of my sharpening stone, rubbed raw and exposed; I say, "hello." For you are my St. Valentine and a massacre to attend it. You have stopped my heart. You make it hard to breathe. You killed what I once was and Sharpened what was sheathed.