​

Lay down, I need to examine your stomach.

 

It is a hollowed out cavern, shape retained by a noxious bubble of hate.

Fat trimmed by swirling gases of angst.  

Why?

Prognosis: Unknowable.

 

Remove your shirt, I need to listen to your heart.

 

It is a machine, a mechanical pump.

Nothing more.

There is a museum to the important parts:

 

          Love

          Shattered like an ancient clay pot,

          On display in a harshly lit glass case.

          You cannot glue it back together.

          The pieces don’t fit anymore.

 

          Instructions On How To Smile Truly

          Not relative joy.

          Real.

          The language has been lost.

          Scholars are currently working on a translation.

          They have made little progress.  

 

Sit up please, I need to listen to your breathing.

 

Air enters and exits,

Spreads to all corners of my body.

The cells are biologically alive.

The sum of them is me.

​

I am no more.