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My laceration, it flows blood, spewing deep red liquid all over the tarmac-
Excuse me; it's merely a slight paper cut.

The burning sun scorches my pale shoulders, they sting to the touch-
What's that? The warm flows over me, a pleasant sensation of heat.

I stagger down the road, vomiting, shouting, tripping, and eventually collapsing-
Don't be ridiculous; she's simply tipsy and clearly a little excitable.

The tears flow down my quivering cheek, I sit sobbing, screaming for assistance-
What's that my love is there something in your eye?

My heart, it's shattered, the fragments strewn over every surface, damaged, unfixable-
Don't be so dramatic; it's nothing a little glue won't solve.

My thumping heart, my hurried breathes, my frozen tongue, my immobile figure-
She's a little nervous; she'll be fine once she gets going.

I scream, shout, begging for clarity in a cramped, cuboid of confusion-
Speak up a little, darling; your hushed, muffled jabberings are almost inaudible.

The old, rotting table stands alone in the basement, its arthritic joints trembling under the immense pressure. It creeks and groans as though entertaining a slow, painful and sadistically prolonged existence. With next to no decoration and a pitiful spread of putrid, inedible substances-
The table is in perfect shape, it's absolutely wonderful, in fact. For I have blessed its surface with a small, singular net of sugared almonds, tied up-of course- with elegant pink ribbons.