Surgeon’s Hands

I have nothing to say to you.

You know when you get that feeling in your chest? That compression? How it’s not pain, but sore. Not sad, but sorry. Tense but ‘truding. You have this habit of sneaking into bed when I least expect it and stuffing what’s left of your calicing fingers inside my chest, here, clutching my heart, pumping yourself because my body refuses, rejects, and recoils.

I am the operating table, I am not the patient. The grounds you lay your rules on. But not the body you open. Who is the needle? The thread? The burn against the fiber? That’s up to you. The fist. The crush. The pressure. Triangular, they clasp themselves in harmony to feed the nausea sickeningly in chest cave ins of men and boys, but boys don’t cry and therefore we can’t think of death. We piss ourselves and wash away the hard earned blood on this here table.

Therefore am I to blame? My hands are red. I killed the king and know not yet where my new crown lies. If it lies. Do hands have lips to lie from? I know not where they whisper or when and if they whip their wailing wisps through infant winds to pray on unsuspecting petty fools like me. Be quiet even so, hands are meant for holding, not for clutching.

You have surgeons hands. Anonymous bodies in between your stitches and my chrome sides speak mountains to us moles searching for the light with nothing but our deep brown noses.