I lose more parts
To strangers, relatives,
The elderly, babies,
Collection agencies,
Friends, therapy,
To my girlfriend,
And people I care about.
To myself.
Walking, running, sitting,
Unconscious, awake,
It doesn't matter.
Like a poster tacked
To a wall,
I am resigned to my outcome.
Jaws snap, canines slice,
Molars grind, swallowed whole.
Pieces missing:
Pinky fingers, a foot, an arm,
Half a sternum, 3/4 of a heart,
And the whole frontal lobe
Replaced by bite marks
And strands of warm saliva.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
Veins dangling stuck between teeth,
Like a row of used nooses hanging
From a beam in the rafters.
My emotions are infected,
And pouring out of the fresh lacerations
Onto the tiled kitchen floor.
I don't notice, even recognize.
Can't begin to process
What's happening.
Alone.
Laying on a couch.
Packing open wounds
With pink insulation
To stop the bleeding, thinking,
And to absorb the tears.
It's so hot.
Dark.
Damp.
Empty.
I lose track of
The days, hours, and seconds.
So hopeless.
In this process of digestion,
I can only be saved by
A finger down the throat,
Or a knife to the stomach.
