It feels like someone took a knife to my back,
and tore open my skin in one, slow motion.

It feels like the person reached into the gaping hole,
and is still pulling on my muscles, my ribs, and my lungs.

The someone is pulling and twisting on my insides,
their big hands attacking me from behind.

The person stops, and my hopes rise.
Then the someone shoves the knife into my open wound.

Twisting and pulling again,
this time with the original offender.

My muscles are angel hair,
covered in my own marinara sauce.

Playing with its food,
the someone twists my strands,

she slices them,
slicing me again.

Soon the whole me
will be bits of me.

As long as she keeps twisting and pulling,
I’ll continue my way to my death bed.

My death bed,
covered in angel hair.

My death bed,
covered in my marinara sauce.