a ghost split open my abdomen
with a pocket knife, not the sharp kind, but the
blade on the multi-tool, corkscrewdriver type
and left me sitting there, open bodied so I can’t
I can’t move, touched my insides until they grew cold and still,
my blood’s congealing like ketchup on a park bench, my fingers growing stiff
my mind pounding pounding pounding but my body is now filled with cotton,
cotton seeds growing through my pores, out of my eye sockets, and they’re not
even flowers, but I suppose it's good I’m growing at least