The bedroom for this surgery-
this dissection of you.
The skull carved away to show the brain:
That mind that through all our “love”
I never could understand.
The synapses of silk,
I touch like your clothes-
o’ those nights.
‘Tis here all those images.
Images from those beautiful eyes
How was it you saw me?
Those choice words you pick-
Picked. Gifted me with their selection.
The lies you tried- in this mind- to sell.
Down to the cavern of the chest:
(The cavity of which is not ice nor stone!)
But fleshy rose. Beating like a march.
I do remember so fondly. How I marched.
Marched to that beating heart.
But it did not beat for me.
It did not burn for want of “we”.
(As I imploded.)
The ribs, parted like the coverts of a Swan-
(but lacking in the grace perhaps?
For such a comparison.)
They are cold, these ribs.
They do remind me of your dainty fingers!
(Attached to hand that mocked me)
for my desire to reach your beating heart.
The lungs that breathe-
breathed. Breathed a sigh of relief
to know you were bereaved of me
The petty tears of a boy who lay
Swore he loved you.
Then the stomach.
That spat me out with blackest bile.
The stench of my Rose petals.
Rotting inside your belly.