I cut my body open just before the party,
Hoping to clear my conscience.
But the wound started bubbling
And spit something breathing and throbbing.
Slipping from my fingers,
It plopped in my pot like liver
And broke like glass.
I found something decaying when I cut myself open, unreadable prints and shapeless body. I tried to make something out of the Nothing and it tasted bitter and blue. Bitter and blue and in a million pieces, I had no right to feed it to you. Remember how you made coffee on my 18th?
I hoped the things left unsaid would mask the metallic taste of your throat getting torn.
There lies a splinter in your bed, and I’m incomplete without it. I’m sorry if you ever found it penetrating your skin. I guess that’s just what Love is; I’m still learning how to say it.
