The jagged cut from the dull, serrated blade of rejection. I lay down for you wounded, asking for healing and compassion. The absence of your touch wakes me to the shooting pain up my leg.
The infection of grief is growing as the reality sets in looking down where my leg once was.

I am an amputee.

My leg, my foundation of who I am, has been hacked off without anesthesia.

This separation procedure has taken months of sawing. Startled wake today hemeragging emotions at the wound of your disregard.  Doc explained I've been experiencing fanthom limb...

"But we've been walking together, side by side. I've felt the strength and balance of two legs. When/how did this happen? " I protest in disbelief

Standing next to the mangled discarded remains, "one cut at a time" you reply coldly, the dripping blade still in your hand.

"But perhaps we will walk together again once you have time to adjust to your prosthetic"