Internal:External

I want to know what I am made of

I want to know what I contain.

So I slide scalpel under skin

And I slice myself from sternum to inseam

I am made of milk-teeth memories

Moldering in muddied blood

The makings of malaise are what made me.

I investigate intestines and inspect innards

My hands hacking their way through the heat

Rising from my heavy-hearted husk.

I thought I would be scared in here

Seeing all that I encase

Blood and bone and bile doesn’t make for pretty pictures

But I find boldness in my body

A daring defeat of desires and depression

A study in solace and survival.

So I sew myself up

With a steady hand and stable heart

I cleansed the mind and the mood, mopping up misery

I sopped up the sadness, soaked up the sheer fright of struggling

With rags made of what I refuse to be.

I wipe down the white flesh, knowing incisions become scar tissue

Firm and flexible to the touch, almost invisible to the unknowing eye

Until all that is seen is what I have made myself to be.

Until all that is known of me

Is the beauty of being.