My blood congeals in a bowl
And I guess I must be alive,
Because I didn’t know it did that,
I have a perverse craving for black pudding,
I know it won’t replenish my blood,
But it might make this feel more normal.
I watch as he sharpens his knives,
Watch as his muscles move,
Take in the beauty of his face,
Even like this, because it means he cares,
Sure, not in the right way, but in a way all the same,
Still, I ask, because I don’t understand,
“Haven’t you taken enough from me?”
I’m transported to an earlier time,
That’s no less hard, no more safer,
But feels it through less experienced eyes,
And I remember the screams and swears
That accompanied my nightmares,
The everlasting bottle of alcohol that
Refilled itself faster than I could keep track of,
And sometimes I felt like it was liquefied oxygen;
The more she drank the harder it was to breathe.
Every moment of my life has been about giving,
My lungs, my subconscious, my heart,
And I guess there’s still more to give,
But shouldn’t something be mine?
I want my corpse to leave something behind
That’s not just a skeleton that was too tough
To grind down into protein powder,
Don’t want morticians to notice that
My soul was in a package that was
Never, ever, handled with care.
I want to be touched like glass,
I want to be treated like a porcelain doll,
And maybe that makes me selfish,
Because I still have a liver and kidneys,
I still have a pancreas and feet upon feet of bowels,
Hell, I still even have my appendix,
So really, why should I fucking complain?
When he explains it like that, it makes sense,
Like maybe once there was an argument there,
Maybe, but he already took it long ago,
And I wonder what it’s like to lead a life
That’s only taking and taking and taking,
I wonder why I couldn’t have been chosen for that,
Wonder if it’s because I would only ever take
What’s already free to start with.