The Offering

September 25, 2011
By Anonymous

There is a parasite sucking out life, on the body, on my body.
18, an embryo in the womb of the plague, the plague is on me, the plague is me. A hole, two holes, a dig, a scratch, here I am, there I'm not, where did I go? A rabbit, down the diseased rabbit hole.
Were china hands, of porcelain, and they washed the dishes, and they held other hands, but now are as useless as me, I am useless. Stuck in my head for a war you've never heard of, you don't fathom. I hear silent gunshots, and cover bullet wounds that don't bleed.
There is dirt on my face and underneath the hip of my jeans, and I scrape it away to find it still there. I see a motionless palm. I see clean hands.
A girl touches my face, and I touch hers in turn. She kisses me. Lays me down. Does not understand why I continue to move her hand from the dirt. She See's clean face, clean hips, scrape-less. She cannot use me though, I am nothing but artillery for does, and doe eyes.
Scalpel me open with two hands, and find the bug that's tunneled in me, find the person who put it there, find the empty heart, the empty soul, the empty mind...all empty. Vex it out with sugar cubes, appease my need, and fill the spaces, you sit inside the body, swollen gut, now full.
Pry apart the two, there are things hidden, and there is where you shouldn't look for them, that is were you'd find them, those hidden things.
And the parasite hides the map in his very own swollen abdomen, in a bucket of keys, with lost locks, and hay full of needles. A rhythm rhyme you can't hum, but a bandage,
I suppose,
for wounds gone numb.

The author's comments:
Written after I found out I may have ovarian cancer.

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