How it works (prose poem)
I woke up idealistic the day before I died. I bonded with steel and slid it
over my heart. I hammered rusty nails into my wrists and feet. They kept me
grounded. The wooden floor abhorred my morning routine. I still see it clearly.
My daydreaming prompted me to carve sunlight on my chest. My safety
glasses let me see through clouds. My ears grew accustomed to bearing such
weight. Clarity requires sacrifice, I had always whistled. I opened a drawer
below my diaphragm because I missed Frida. I had a knob screwed on my
bellybutton with my boyfriend's flat headed screwdriver. As he held my
expectations up with the locking pliers, I investigated my guts with a stripping
tool. Wow!, he said as we both concluded that "The unconscious weighs so
much less when released of our overly cautious barriers!". As I pulled the
needle through my skin, sliding the silk in an artsy zigzag swing, he managed
the scissors. I proceeded to, while single handedly tuning my lever heads with
my cold tip wrench, to pluck my vocal strings while searching for the unsung
declaration of ultimate withstanding union between two elements. My lips I
covered in red muting felt, for my silence to be forever provoking. My fingers I
placed on the shank and hammer clamp, neatly drawn apart from each other,
tightening the tension between muscles and tendons. My boyfriend and I, the
same existence, as both had come to learn. But he, the musician, and, now,
I, the instrument. Oh, the sweet notes we drew from me!