Words Under the Knife
Sometimes I find myself performing
autopsies on old conversations
peeling
away my diction like freshly severed
flesh and I wonder if I had
cracked
ribs differently or refused to remove
hearts and drain your blood from
your veins that I would have never
stolen
the air from your lungs turning
your lips blue and
splitting your bones
under the weight of my words and no matter
how deep I dive into the body I always
find my pen writing out the cause of death as
premature
and I bury my feelings deep into
the soil next to the last one and they shall
stay there until the next time I dig up the body
and find myself lingering in the morgue