The Procedure
I guess the surgery is going well
as every little piece of me is cut away
leaving just the pale white skin
and a bruise the color of a plum.
I could see why you want to avoid me,
What with me being cancerous and all,
but part of me finds it hard to be rid of you,
struggling behind nights cuddled up,
sweat boxin with your legs up lookin towards
the mirror, arguments that proceeded with
motherly stares, and long drives past Cracker Barrel.
How does one fully forget the past?
A mind wash would be nice or a serious
blow to the head. It’s been two years
and I still bring out the ruler when measuring
up others to you. It’s not fair for them or you.
Maybe I’ll just cut it off at the arm, like you,
just be rid of it and spend my days grasping
with one arm or limping around stupidly like
a winged pigeon. Either way, I’m sick of relapsing.
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