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| Innards | |
| By Keller | ||||||||||||||
| 19 October 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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Not really sure how this one was born, it just kind of wrote itself - I just held the pen!
I have performed surgery
on myself, sliced open
my chest;
cracked open my ribs,
and found myself empty
at times.
I know I should be crimson here:
crammed with berries
cased in fleshy pastry.
But on occasion
all I've found is grey ribbon;
strung between my veins
and knotted in my elbows.
And other times,
I have spilled out fibre-glass
which has scratched into my fingers,
and stayed there for days.
Itching.
I daren't rub my eyes anymore.
But recently I find myself less alone.
You've taken up residence in my
stomach;
your toes tangled in intestines,
your head laid on a lung.
I can feel your breath on my kidneys
and my liver squeezed between knees,
and I like you being
there.
I can smell your hair and feel your hand inside mine: your fingers stretching. Our hearts have fallen in to rhythm; our arteries confused have begun to bleed into each other. I'd been so scared of this all along, but it's just like breathing.
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