crying in three parts

i.
the sea bore me during low tide.
my tiny body raced into the rocky shore,
and my back bled crimson and yellow.
it was here that i learned how to wail.

ii.
a set of arms curiously trace the scars. i
read this as love, and we sift our hands underneath
each other’s flesh. our arms in an embrace for eternity.
our eyes glossed over with tears.

iii.
i perform a surgical procedure on myself:
scalpels, scissors​, and two pairs of arms​
hanging a lifeless blue from their tendons.
i weep from the butchering. ​

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malpractice

like nettles pressed from beneath skin,
the hardening scab itches profusely.
cracks of soft pink flesh peer between
tectonic plates of scarring.
a slow metamorphosis, the gentle
pulsing of wings through a cocoon.

but the hands i let massage numbing
ointment into my scars have dug through veins.
i watch with empty eyes his careful
disassembly of my chest cavity
as if the pain was a routine blood drawing
and allowed nothing more than a wince.
my organs were then sterilized and
sutured and cauterized haphazardly in
a vain attempt at reparation.

weak and deformed, the flesh trembles
at the gentlest breeze.