I sliced the arms and legs.
I sew together each vein.
Delicate patterns of lace,
and the soft blush of first love.
My palms are stained red.
The needle slipped in, swiftly as the sleek body of a fish.
Sans hésitation
A gentle gush of warmth,
Flowing freely from each cut.
Catching in the cracks of the pavement
And between my lovers lips
These are only the amateur first strokes
Of my watercolour painting.
Next are the fingernails.
which have endured the brunt for many years,
Peeled back more layers
Than there was time to grow back.
Bitten down
to bleeding crescents.
One time too many,
There is that rush of excitement
At the promising sight of relief .
I pull away more and more,
Until what’s left is
A mush of pinkish flesh
And the tender, sweet ache
Of another nail gone.
Leave me alone, I said,
I don’t want for you
To see my face when I turn.
To see this blissful smile.
A work of art can never really be finished.
A drop of antiseptic
A press of cotton here and there
“There there” I coo.
“Nothing to fear, I will take care of you”
Lay still I said
The flesh of the belly,
Is warm with vitality.
I test the blades’ sharpness,
By skimming it across my tongue
Rust and salt and life.
Place carefully at an angle,
And cut out all the ugliness.
Bits of fat I have sliced
Are quickly devoured by the insects
That live inside me.
How good it is to feel
Such a heavy burden lifted.