viking funeral
I knew it would hurt to yank the knife out but I didn’t know I’d miss it there. There is a gap in me now and I can’t stop stuffing my fingers in it. When you get your ears pieced is there a piece of flesh gone with the needle, or does the skin just part to make room? I know it doesn’t matter, really. I will still dig through the bins of the studio until I find the flesh I’m missing.
The sun goes down eventually, even in mid July. Days have been feeling longer recently, as they do this time of year. The nights are darker. There is a grotesque cavern in my chest. I can fit my whole fist in it.
People will stop feeling sorry for me soon, stop helping me dig through skips searching for skin and bones that no one’s even sure I’ve lost. Soon it will be my own job to fix it, find some gauze or stitches or another knife if it will shut me up.
I miss you. It’s all fucked up now. I can’t give back the chunks I have bitten out of you. I want you back. I’ve spat out your flesh and seared it and eaten it again. You couldn’t have it back now if you wanted it. I can’t take you back now if I wanted to. You can’t remember what you did with the parts of me I left for safekeeping. What we had is burnt and bloody and scattered around like a Viking funeral. I love you.