content warning: mild gore
I’ll cook for you every Sunday from now
until I rot, feed you fresh-cut trimmings
of my nails. I will delve my love-worn
fingers into the sack of my chest,
pull out a heart, still wriggling,
still bursting, always yours.
Here’s my stomach,
and oesophagus tied off,
a knapsack to keep in
the last meal you made me.
I’ll give you all the wishes
you could ask for, pluck out
my every eyelash one by one.
I will wobble every tooth out,
keep them in a fairy jar for you,
ask for nothing in return. Please –
take my femurs to scratch your back or
to shatter if you ever need a toothpick, ice-bath
my organs so you’ll live forever, tin my muscles
for apocalypse fodder, take my veins
and ligaments as spares, leave me
nothing but my tired hands.
Skye Wilson is a Scottish poet with an MSc in Creative Writing from the University of Edinburgh. She loves rugby, words, and ugly shirts. Find more of her work at skye-wilson.com.
photo by Kev Bation (via unsplash)