Author: MW
[Content Warning: gore, mild body horror]
Will you be my surgeon? The knife wielder,
He-who-will-cure-by-cutting.
I would excise me too.
If the scalpel goes deep enough,
Through layers of skin and fat and muscle
Will you find it? The heart-sickness
The Great Abscess, the wrong thing.
My mother promised me it would never be my soul
But I think she promised wrong,
for there are poisons in me deeper than you can conceive,
fast acting, life rending.
You cannot bring them out of me without killing your self,
For they move from the one to the other,
and to touch them is to become them.
Body open on the block, I’ve heard intestines writhe
the crawling, all sustaining worm
is in us before it is in the earth.
I writhe, I writhe, I writhe.
How will you tell, what is worms and what is guts?
hands slick between sinews,
One slip, one nick,
down goes baby, cradle and all.
Let us be what you made we,
But you must hold the scalpel.
Let us be what we made me
We’ll fall, we’ll fall, we’ll fall.