Clinical and cold
A table –
There are bones
Then skin piled high in
A bucket right beside
Two of two squashed, flattened eyes
Fully dried out now, but many times met
The corrosive spell of tears a lifetime let.
Sectioned off – the unraveled guts…
Nicked kidneys and liver’s discoloration …
And set open over on a shelf in a tray
Are the shriveled, hacked remains of a female brain
A strange ooze of gray drains full its surrounding space
Such a devastating shade…her sickened inner world explained
Small objects and organs of a dead body spread
Parts of the collected mess that was a life once lived.
With her heart never so precious,
Now dropped somewhere in the corner on the floor
With its poor blood sneakily creeping beneath the door.
Even in death there is her reaching…
Though no one would dare show up.
There is nothing here well enough to ever be made use of.
They risk to breathe the mark of this air and blacken their own lungs
For the slaughter of self and soul she has become.
An awful remembrance it is
For those who may have loved.
I had the most embarrassing phone interview this morning…
I’m going to give up trying to escape my job at the bakery. They’ll work me until I’m dead-which shouldn’t last too long- and that’s probably the way it should be. It’s about time I stop resisting. I can’t control life.