two big knives
not steak knives
but chefs knives
four incisions
i’ll literally leave my heart on the table
use the knives like chopsticks
take what you want
are you satiated? are you full?
what parts of me are worth stomaching?
are you satisfied all the time?
can i even breathe without a heart?
where does my blood go when
it stops beating?
all the unknowns and i’ll still leave it on
the kitchen table
in hopes that one day it’s our kitchen table
there’s no promise though for it to be ours
at any moment it could be theirs
yours still, but hers too
how do you shake off
the loss of an organ that’s so vital
the answer is you don’t
i’m convincing myself you can
i know i can’t
the table is wooden and there’s splinters of
wood deeply embedded where
wood should never be
my aorta every ventricle of this
beating body
make it stop.
promise me, and it’ll all stop.
i need to pump this blood again
for my head is starting to feel dizzy
and not in the familiar fainting way
in the out of control
spiraling way
how the tree in my front yard must have
felt when the storm in 2002 happened
ripped roots from the ground
nobody told her it would be her last day
grounded.
no notice isn’t fair
i need to be seen.