Not A Love Poem

original image

Sometimes,

I wish I could cut open my chest.

Not a sterile, surgical slice,

but a raw slashing,

ragged-edged ripping of muscle

and sinew and

cracking open of bone.

I would reach inside,

grab the purply-red,

erratically throbbing organ.

I would fling it into the dirt,

stomp on it

like a toddler refusing to accept

the nonfulfillment of his wishes.

Afterwards,

I would smooth it out,

hang it up in the middle of a forest,

and leave it there.