[warning – graphic]

The doctors will come,
I promised
as I stabilized the wound with a metal rail, stretching my abdomen for everyone to see
They all lined up, came by and spit into the orifice, one by one
granting me their final gifts of disregard.

Of course, I cried to them
You there, Sir! Won’t You take pity on this poor wretch of a woman?
Bring her home, slice her, carve her up like a snuff prostitute
then hang her torso over your bed as a lucky charm
to ensure that you, honored Sir, will never succumb to the same madness!

Believe me, I didn’t ask for it either.
But the strange thing about roadkill
is that it’s not a roadkill until you choose to get out of the car and look,
inspect the wheel-tracks carved into it’s stomach like the fingerprints of god.
I prefer to drive by,
wallowing in the hypocrisy I convey
What is it about a wound that will make it’s carrier numb to the blame of others?
Even surgeons, they say, were at first shocked
to find out you could heal someone by
cutting them open.
I walked out of the clinic with the truth engraved in bold helvetica.
Patient’s tendency to harm herself suggests mental instability. 
They approach as vultures, glistening scalpels in their hands, and tell me this action is considered morally repulsive and counterfeit,
an Icarus who purposely set his own wings on fire
to gain the attention of the world

If I cannot hide it, I will shout
loud, so that no one may place these words in my mouth,
fatty squishy truths oozing from my mouth (I think I’d rather vomit than swallow,
tie my own arteries up like shoelaces,
firm enough to stand the wear-out of society,
but not too hard,
lest I’d want to open them again
and I will)

Henna describes herself as “The goth girl next-door. Aspiring author. Monstrophile. Horror enthusiast. I write to cope with mental illness and everyday experiences.”  You can read more of her writing at MurderTrampBirthday