“I may think of you softly from time to time. But I’ll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.”
I find myself catching a whiff of the textbook definition of longing
Nostalgia for what it felt like to be filleted like a carp
You, like the hungry fishermen, with feet in the sand, who feast where they kill
Don’t shit where you eat
You always have.
pardon my french.
Shame, humiliation like an old pillory,
the rigid and aged wood expelling a bracelet of splinters upon each wrist
A lasting memento of your words,
you’d sooner sew your lips and preach to no one but Harpocrates
The backroads I took to receive you, the bumper that thuds on the pavement from behind me
“I may think of you softly from time to time. But I’ll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.”
I’ll use my godamn teeth if I must
I’d start with my nails, easy work, like taking the tail off a shrimp, ridding myself of you like plucking off a leech
Then move on to the fingers, easy to crack, nimble thin rods, like uncooked pasta
Till I get to the wrist then the hand, hacking away with my teeth like a sloppy turkey leg
I’d slaughter myself viciously, lap up the blood, and mutilate my own palm
As my final supper,
if I knew that I’d never reach for you again
“I may think of you softly from time to time. But I’ll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.”
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