exsanguination

I was walking in the mall parking lot,  
holding a little pink bag of overpriced  
white silk,  
designed to make
you  
fall to your knees with
a glance;  
when the toe of my shoe  
kicked it,  
causing it to  
skitter a few feet in front of me.  
 
Box cutters. Rusty. Old.  
Left out in elements to die,  
the red handle faded to a sickly pinkish,  
like old medicine.  
 
I picked it up,  
setting down the pink bag as  
I squatted in the parking lot,  
fascinated by this forgotten bit of plastic and metal.  
 
The slider barely worked,  
and the  
blade was dull,  
 
just like your ears when I  
asked you...  
please...  
(let me be unique)  
 
And like that,  
I wanted to handcuff you to a  
filthy metal pole,  
and fuck wearing the white froth in the pink bag,  
I wanted to paint myself in latex,  
black, thick, so it was like a rubber dermis,  
the shit they use for making monsters  
in the movies.  
 
The shit I'd use to make myself a monster.  
 
I wanted to take my trusty,
rusty  
box cutters
and autopsy you,  
slice you from groin to sternum,  
and follow with the y-shaped  
cuts from sternum to each clavicle,  
take the dull blade and hack through  
the line around your skull,  
pull down your mask
 
and then....  
 
get in with you.  
 
Crawl into your body,  
slide through the gore  
my arms digging  
through your skin  
breaking through the
tissue-filled pockets of you,  
and force myself under your surface,  
my toenails poking holes from inside your kneecaps  
as I pushed my legs down.  
popping the ligaments that hold skin to flesh,  
stretching
so that it never  
fucking fits
again  
without me.  
 
And I'd like to run my tongue  
lovingly along the rictus of your skull's teeth,  
grind myself against your pelvic bone,  
and shove the cutters,  
in your  
lungs.  
 
So that you can't
breathe  
without  
cursing my name.  
 
Because I can't breathe without yours.  
 
A drop of rain hissed on the blacktop  
in front of me, shaking me out of my fugue.  
My hands trembled a little.  
I dropped the box cutters in the parking lot,  
and wiped my hand on my pants,  
pragmatically counting back to the  
last time I had a tetanus shot.  
 
I left the knife,  
faded,  
worn,  
bereft of imagination
next to the little pink bag
and walked away.
 
They mean the same thing,  
you know.  
 
It's better that way.