Monday, April 12, 2010

The source of the problem.

Doll;
broken,
guts
spread apart
like string,

still twitching.

She looks up,
two green marbles
floating
in pools of sorrow.

A serrated blade
held tight,
knuckles white
she whispers through
split lips,
exposes pink teeth.

“Could you cut the heart out of me?”
Would you cut my heart out for me?

Her skin, a criss-cross
mish-mash
of raised scars
and fresh slices...

Practice cuts
for the serious
surgery.

Her trembling fist
rises,
she offers the blade
with a hitch in her chest.

“Please, it is killing me...”

This doll,
this broken doll
pleads.
I want to sew her back together,
that precious skin.

Could you murder someone that you love?
Would you murder someone that you love?

She begins to fade
as the puddle grows,
Ophelia
drowning on the bathroom floor.
She points to her left breast
and heaves her chest...

I take the knife from her bloodied hand--

I was never good at drawing hearts,

lop-sided
too big
disconnected
I had always preferred X and
O.

I try anyway...

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