Welcome To My Bed

Ending this.

I'm getting a little frustrated, and I promised myself I wouldn't, but I am posting something I wrote the other day, even though apparently I'm not even allowed to post my own writing on a blog that I created and maintain. Anyway, we all know what this is about.

To the Anonymous Blog Commenter -

This morning
I took a butter knife
to my thigh at the breakfast table
and cut out a sizable chunk
for you.
It's in the mail.
Dividing myself
among cardboard boxes and tight white envelopes -
but the pieces don't just find their way
to mailboxes I have had hands in
before. That is why I am sending one to you.

I got a postcard from Spain
today, apologizing for mistaking
my left lung for salted pork; at least someone can use it.
Got a tin can phonecall from down the road
asking to borrow my eyes for the afternoon and said yes.
My skin is an archive
holding in piles of letterbomb
that will not reveal themselves
when shaken. They will not detonate
until you hold them in your own hands
and know that you are
the same brand of homemade explosive.

You are too scared to name yourself
so I will call you "Peter" because the last Peter I knew
defined himself by dead men
who cannot ask him questions,
because Peter was a rock to build the Church on
and denied his brother three times,
because Peter is meant as stone wall and you
are unmoving.

I know each piece
I excise from my body -
muscle-tumor ripped from skin and wrapped
in paper like a butcher's kiss.
I am sure they'll be carried to places
I have never met
and I can't be held responsible
for whose hands are bloodied in the process;
just remember that I am scattered shrapnel,
know that you'll recognize
what I have given you
when it comes through your mail slot,
a stone through the highest window
of the church you built over someone else's corpse.

Go ahead, deny me.
We are made from the same things.
So don't tell me you can't recognize
human flesh.