I weigh 45 kilograms.
The butcher examines me, scrutinising
each knobby knee and naked elbow;
birthmarks and defects of jaw structure,
jarring discolourations, and the pads of my
feet. My soul is packed away in casing,
so he hooks onto the crevices between
my ribs, tearing and twisting, trying to
fathom why I have turned a dark shade of
He punctures my ribcage, and my lungs
gasp and expel stale, dead air. My arms have
always been so thin. Inside of me, he
rifles through sloshes of vodka, unwritten
words, and held-in, suffocated confessions.
Cataclysm compressed and compounded.
A weary container of tears, welled up behind
the ears. An endless ticker-tape reel of film,
misused and battered in the brain.
What has happened here?
There is a chasm that stretches
from the jugular notch to the Xiphoid process.
Tearing it open, the walls of the cage are
a tapestry of cicatrices—a bulwark
maligned by sheets of dust and mildew.
Ash not coughed out yesterday trapped
between the chest of drawers. The costal
cartilage shatters upon touch; true, false
and floating ribs moan in agony. The void
opens up to fill the entire Atlantic Ocean, and
swallows the butcher whole.