fred perry

nothing is left,
no salt to cinch my throat,
no operator to carve out my insides,
no one to watch as she squelches and splits my organs in half,
no one to laugh as she turns them the wrong way out,
the splinters that were happier to stay hidden inside
now displayed like a porcupine,
she frames them,
and there’s no one around,
there’s none of it,
only a current of musk pulling me along,
a fishing wire hooked through my lip,
scraping my limbs against the boulders which, in another life,
shatter my skull and stop me from feeling,
but there is nothing to feel,
there is none of it