In our society, to normal, functioning members of it, a Valentine is a symbol of devotion; to give your heart to someone is merely a sugarcoated metaphor for the fine, intricate human feeling of love, of sweet loyalty and adoring commitment.
My problem lies within its ambiguity, how underwhelmingly figurative and cliché the idea of it is.
How about my version instead, pig?
The room is suffocating, the drowsy saccharine air melting into the gnawing unease in the heavy atmosphere. The dimmed industrial lights flicker, drowning out your abrupt snorts and sobs in a dull, mechanical hum.
I slowly trace down the side of your swollen arm, placing a cold hand on your clammy forehead as you shudder in discomfort. Your gullet is repulsively smeared in drool and lingering traces of chocolate, your grease stained bariatric bed adorned with sanguine, tacky heart shaped boxes.
My dying, sweet Valentine.
I plug your warm mouth with another nauseating piece of chocolate, wiping the ripening tears in your darkened eyes. You submit to the sugar. You submit to me.
“I gave you my heart” I whisper teasingly, laughing and waving another dreaded box in front of your grotesque cheeks, shining you a perverse smile I can’t conceal.
Fear condenses on your lips. They’re met with an insistent handful of the same chocolates, forcefully pushed in.
I’ve always wanted the physicality of it. To feel the sludge filled, syrupy piece of worn out meat I’ve soaked in years of abuse and butter. And I’ll have it.
“I want your heart, pig.” I breathe into your ear as my hand trails down to your revolting, lard filled chest. You squirm.
It’s fascinating how your body has to slick its most vital organ in delicious, visceral adipose to accommodate my freakish, growing piggy. Adorable how your turgid heart is bursting with the love, the sugar, I pump your veins and arteries full of.
The fragmented cry of it escapes the layers of grease, palpitating frantically. The satisfying sound of its failure sears through your pinkish, bruised up skin. I know you feel that familiar ache. You know it too well. This time, I need to have it, my Valentine.
The crippling pressure of my love chokes you, the pulsing reality of it all tears into you. You quiver and gasp for help, with that begging, horrified look in your eyes that I love so, so much.
“You’re finally mine” I coo in pleasure, pressing into the velvety, precious lard I’ve slowly killed you with.
Your vision fades into nothing, that sugary pig heart bursting, crushed.
I never wanted the metaphor of a heart. I want your heart, the real, sickening trophy of my love, my loyalty, my commitment. To slaughtering you like a real pig.
I’ve given you my heart, my Valentine. And now I’ve got yours.