i split myself open
and it wasn’t poetic
and it wasn’t for you

was it a gurney i spent
two hours laying on
intubated and unconscious?

remember sinking under
feeling naked without
any metal in my face and ears

i put my trust in the
hands of a surgeon
freeing me up with a scalpel

didn’t ask what my ribs
looked like
even though i was curious

could he see my heart?
did he see a body that could be
made into a home again?

the poet that i am
would like to think so
that he pressed a key into my hands

this key carved from flesh
and bone and bruised ribs
finally a welcome kind of pain

this pain of something new
thick scars like a promise
like coming home
after so long