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Description
When you think of cutting me in half
do I bleed viscous opaque white or
thin soup and vinegar?
hot with cayenne and the sallow floating parsley -
My heart floats by
covered in cooked brown skin, red in the center,
or is it in pieces?
Is it violent on the surface, like paint that rushes by
at the train crossing, or does it bob
and sink?

Would you cut me horizontal in my middle or
would you fold me in half like butterfly wings?
When my legs are drained does my skeleton stand alone
inside, or did it run with the rest right out of me?
I am either a shell standing rigor mortis or a skin
withered like a wet blanket
on the street.

Would you prick the soles of my feet
so you could find me when I was finally emptied
of everything inside? Or tap
the whiskey and lemonade as it flowed from my fingertips
and into your glass.

Is my brain the staticy water you make your tea with,
or are the nerves laced between the prongs
of your fork
as you lap visibly
at my eyes.

I feel the impact when you throw my insides
at a lonely brick bridge
from a paint bucket, and every drop when I’m falling off of you
as bath water.

When you cut me
smoke will spill out
in great billowing clouds
that linger like film inside my skin.
It will leak from my lungs, from every broken vein,
and each bursting blood platelet will leave a ghost behind.

Or would you rather press your fingers too hard
against me like a fruit,
digging into my bruises
for a stone.

Description
When you think of cutting me in half
do I bleed viscous opaque white or
thin soup and vinegar?
hot with cayenne and the sallow floating parsley -
My heart floats by
covered in cooked brown skin, red in the center,
or is it in pieces?
Is it violent on the surface, like paint that rushes by
at the train crossing, or does it bob
and sink?

Would you cut me horizontal in my middle or
would you fold me in half like butterfly wings?
When my legs are drained does my skeleton stand alone
inside, or did it run with the rest right out of me?
I am either a shell standing rigor mortis or a skin
withered like a wet blanket
on the street.

Would you prick the soles of my feet
so you could find me when I was finally emptied
of everything inside? Or tap
the whiskey and lemonade as it flowed from my fingertips
and into your glass.

Is my brain the staticy water you make your tea with,
or are the nerves laced between the prongs
of your fork
as you lap visibly
at my eyes.

I feel the impact when you throw my insides
at a lonely brick bridge
from a paint bucket, and every drop when I’m falling off of you
as bath water.

When you cut me
smoke will spill out
in great billowing clouds
that linger like film inside my skin.
It will leak from my lungs, from every broken vein,
and each bursting blood platelet will leave a ghost behind.

Or would you rather press your fingers too hard
against me like a fruit,
digging into my bruises
for a stone.