there's pieces of me.
well, i'd like for them to be.
like with a big butcher's knife,
i'd carve myself out like a cake
and hand it over in plates
to all the comers
in the party of my life.
i think i'd have a sour frosting,
a bad bread—perhaps even a bad smell.
i don't think i'd be of good taste,
of any good matter,
for that same sake.
a couple long, repeated bad nights of sleep,
ugliness etched in my skin
like sprinkles on the dark frosting.
what flavor would i be, even?
with all this blood and muscle,
i'd dissect my brain in half,
perhaps find the anti-matter.
i hope by the time i'm carving my heart,
it gets to be in the mouths
of all those who tore it apart.
my bones can be handed over
to whoever tried to reside by them,
in there—
when they couldn’t find places,
or simply chose to stick to the rear.
i could be bitter,
i’d admit.
it leaves me to wonder:
perhaps if i were a dish served cold,
would their hands pause?
washed in guilt
as they chew away at me—
would they realize
i taste exactly as they made me?
the irony of the hands that cooked,
the hands that tasted,
the hands that brought me up
and down
to my very ruin.
if i were to leave myself on the table,
sliced and silent—
would they pray before digging in?
maybe i’m not made of cake.
maybe i’m spoiled rot,
sugarcoated with whipping cream,
one that turned black—
the kind of dark your eyes
never really adjust to.
the mask over decay.
i’m still palatable, i believe.
they never asked
what it cost to be served.
but then, it was my choice—
in the end, at least.
they needed the softest parts.
i offered them,
sweetest pain and all.
to get some, you have to lose some.
lose yourself—
find me.
never the full truth,
just fragments i promise
will indeed satiate your gut.
i wonder if they’d spit me out
if i finally stopped the seasoning.
would they ever let a second glance
go my way—
on me, on the plate?
what’s the etiquette for eating?
accept what is served.
and what for eating someone alive?
do you pretend to care—
pray, ****, or just cut it up?
they stitched poetry into my skin.
had me sewing my wounds—
the antiseptic: my own blood.
only to tear me apart
just to get a read.
a glance
at their own work.
and then they wondered
why i never held it together.
my ribs have poison—
the kind i breathed in,
never out.
second to oxygen,
to the air they stole.
air meant for me,
and me whole.
enter if you must—
through my eyes,
down the pipe to my lungs,
and perhaps my heart.
there’s no angels.
no glow.
no butterflies.
i peeled my skin
as if i were stripping bark from old wood—
but who could’ve accepted
the still-rough edges?
no matter how much smoothing i tried to do.
they drank from my brain
like it was grape wine.
told me i was divine,
worthy of memory,
of residence.
and every single time i found myself
in a heart—
it locked me up,
bared me apart.
i carved my way out
with a rusted hand,
my body on the line—
and to prove i had one,
what all did i not do?
was it ever enough?
if i were a mausoleum—
would they leave flowers,
or taste the stench hidden
behind the sweet of my grave?
my veins: strings,
messy and burning
with the desire
to ache and spill out
everything they carry.
my teeth: chewing on bits of my own chest,
hollowed out,
worms crawling within.
this self—
a cage.
a cage of muscle and bone.
enlightened, maybe.
reached the world beyond,
if that’s what they call it.
madness personified.
grotesque, but tender.
all these bruises and wounds—
a decay so glittery
i perform it.
one horrifying nightmare,
mentality gruesome,
pain bespectacled.
they romanticized
every time i bled—
on the steps,
on the hands
that never cared
for the pretty red.
cynical,
pathetic little monsters.
each one shapeshifting
into others.
selective consumption,
their art form.
watch my performative sweetness,
and fake the fake
out of them all.
bon appétit!
i lost half the idea to this in my sleep even though i was awake.
