He was a monster long before I cut him up.


I trace lines across his skin

And breathe in cold night air.

A single black marker

Makes long markings on his flesh.

I leave ink on his rib-cage,

And the collar of bones.

I leave dots along his jaw-line,

And the curve of his waist.

He fills my mouth with kisses

And softly says my name.

And when I cut him open,

It is almost like I cut myself.

There is blood upon the table;

There is a shaking in my limbs.

Little jars and formaldehyde,

An open night sky and chill.

I take up my scalpel

And retrace the inky lines.

There is a map along his body;

There is a boil in his blood.

His eyes close a final time

And the breath seeps from his lungs.

The two are plump and fleshy

In the palms of my hands.

In the wake of my scalpel

I leave nothing but scars.

I press my ear to his chest

But his heart does not beat.

I start to feel panic

That he will not return.

But I will bring him back

The way I always have.

I stitch him up again,

Grey skin to more grey skin.

I strike a beat back in his heart,

And he comes gasping back to life.

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