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Fish Shop

The head is always the first to go

Eyes lingering on mine, veiled and dead

Captured staring into its last glimpse of this world

Full of sight and blind at the same time.


I don’t look at the eyes, only the neck

As the razor edge of the knife comes down

Thud, sickening and dull into the wooden countertop.


Then the slippery body, my fingers covered in it’s slime

Holding it there and slitting down the streamlined stomach

The innards become the outards

And so do mine.


The smell is natural, pulses of stagnant heat wafting up

In time of a heartbeat that does not exist

My hands, acting only on memory

Hold the gossamer fins and slice, cast them into the trash.


And as I repeat the sacred act there’s a small tickling in my

Stomach that climbs into my throat,

Threatening to burst free.

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