autopsy

The mortician knows me more intimately than I have ever known myself. Her hands deep in my intestines, fingers curling under my ribs, into my lungs. I gasp; she decorates my skin with autopsy scars. Tell me what went wrong with me. Tell me what they missed. Tell me what I lied about. Show me the bruises that climbed up my gut. Show me the muscles that always hurt. Kiss them. Rip them apart with your canines. Consume me whole. And then I will be worth the breath I owe.