Offerings—Skye Wilson

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,
with intestine
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

photo by Kev Bation (via unsplash)