i split myself open
and it wasn’t poetic
and it wasn’t for you
was it a gurney i spent
two hours laying on
intubated and unconscious?
remember sinking under
feeling naked without
any metal in my face and ears
i put my trust in the
hands of a surgeon
freeing me up with a scalpel
didn’t ask what my ribs
looked like
even though i was curious
could he see my heart?
did he see a body that could be
made into a home again?
the poet that i am
would like to think so
that he pressed a key into my hands
this key carved from flesh
and bone and bruised ribs
finally a welcome kind of pain
this pain of something new
thick scars like a promise
like coming home
after so long