It’s not about the gush of blood
flushing from my nose.
But about the burst freed vein,
the plumbing that needs gutting.
The body that needs to be dissected,
torn into to be experienced.
To see the infected chest cartilage
suffocating my lungs with salt.
The false negatives refusing
to expose her snapping discs.
The ankles filled
with yesterday’s mistakes.
Breasts constantly being cut into,
Stabbed, leaving only stretch marks.
Ovaries with homemade bombs
playing minefield with the future.
You’re going to need to cut me,
split me to find my guilt.
Study my insides for truth
but if not death, take it at my word.