Romance in an Age of HMO's

I ripped open my shirt
to show you my beating heart.
Bit by bit, I carved away
my chest with a spoon.

It took me eight months, and three spoons.

Surprise: it hurt like fucking hell.
As blood and bits of gristly identity
soaked this berber carpet.

Fucking desire was my anesthetic.
And you know what that means.

It's a peculiar thing,
prying your own chest cavity open
writing "hold me"
in sharpie on the left ventricle.

It's odd to love
the feel of your fingers in my rib cage.

In the dirty parts, they write
"she stroked his throbbing organ"
And they almost never mean his aorta, do they?

Every time you hiccup
or flinch or recoil
or fucking go away
the bitter air floods my chest
and I see myself below

Running errands and
clutching my breast
in delicious fucking agony.