Monday, August 15, 2011


Are you ready for this? you ask, and I say yes, though I never knew about your surgical background. I trust you, your swagger allows me to. I lie supine on the table, and you open me up. You rummage around inside me like you would with your handbag, moving pieces aside, throwing out bits of junk and receipts. Did you wash your hands? I ask, but you pretend not to hear me. Your hands feel cold, and then I feel a pinch as you grab hold of what you were after. This will hurt you say, and it hurts, and you pull and I feel my insides changing. My eyes are blurry, but I look down and see you, your hands covered in gunk, holding the irrational part of me that always threatened to overwhelm anything else that tried to blossom

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