Oh My! They have been stitched back.
All my pieces have
been reassembled. It must have
been when the cooking
wine drove me to
I was lying in a knot
in front of the oven, where
my stew had been cooking. I left, from
the kitchen, into this blackness.
When I awoke,
my pieces were positioned back to
their former posts!
They are not what they used to be, not
nearly as attractive. Nobody else would
ever choose these parts! But,
they are perfect to me! Exactly how I want them!
I’m still hurting, the pain is jabbing – bulging in and out
at the stitiches.
I do not mind though. For now, I scream, I writhe in
agony, I attempt sleep in discomfort. It will fade though and My pieces will
never work how they used to.
I am cut into pieces, boiling
in a stew. A quarter cup of the fingers have been
diced away along with
a chunk of the right breast,
both little toes,
the bones and muscle in the
right forearm, a kidney,
and the fallopian tubes.
Salt dances painfully on the wounds of
what remains of the body. I cry out for some relief!
There is nothing.
Anesthesia will not behave!
The stew boils about, my pieces
become soft and
flesh falls from bone. The crockpot screeches
with the heat – it knows!
But, I do not blame the crockpot. It
must perform it’s duty.
No choice for a hunk of metal!
I scream again! The pain! Where is comfort?
Where is solace?
Ah! Cooking wine!
Take care of my wounds.
Take the pain away…..
After some time, the alcohol performs it’s own duties.
I hope the stew makes it to all those empty mouths!