I’ve spilled blood. I’ve carved flesh.
Never questioned why. Until now.
People talk about a conscience.
The sentience that determines good and evil men.
It can stop you from doing bad things
Or it can make it an insatiable need.
The same blade I’ve used countless times will show me.
I need to find it, see it, cut it out.
Never liked to be under the control of another.
And I’m done being its bitch.
The exposition of my tissues shows me nothing.
Only brings images to my mind
Of times where I ripped through the trembling bodies of others.
That same metallic smell.
Muscle now, sinew, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.
So, what were they screaming about, carrying on, pleading?
No mission control, no power center exposed.
The knife goes deep into my belly like butter.
Reaching into my gut, I feel wet and slippery coils.
I slide them out like the unraveling of a garden hose,
Inspect them, turn them over in my hands and find nothing still.
My eyes meet the gaze of the circular saw and its gaze meets mine.
Vibrations rattle my head.
Don’t people talk about positive and negative vibrations?
Which was this?
Smoke and particles as I feel the pressure of my skull release.
I peel back the rubbery skin of my scalp, then the hard shell.
Pink canyons and channels await, empty.
If not here than where?
Just in case, I’ll let myself succumb.
Because I can never be anyone’s bitch.
