gunna—
snip. gunna slit.
gunna put something red and pulsing inside of me, and take something half-dead and bloated out. gunna hurt. the pain gunna get eiderdown pillows for it’s swollen ankles. gunna expect me move-on after things are altered. gunna wheedle me back to my couch with the huge russet flowers. gunna give me fine cotton to cover my mouth, and my breath will most likely make me angry. gunna remind me of the gift some loveydove ripped from their soul to save me. gunna say, “we cut through her taut muscle,” and i’m gunna cry for her during my uncomfortable sponge bath. gunna repeat the word “humbling” while adjusting the wire pasted beneath my sad tit as if i have not been perfecting the act of humble since birth. gunna open the goddam shades in my room, and i’m gunna keep my radical hate for the sun to myself because no one wants to hear shit like that when they are trying to help you. my teeth are gunna yellow into sad daffodils, and i’m gunna beg everyone who enters my room to grab a clorox freshscent disinfecting wipe to help purify the doorknob. gunna mutter, “just relax hun, cuz the real journey lies ahead when you get out of this dump.” gunna tell me that the pulsing thing inside of me isn’t a baby so stop rubbing your belly like it is. but i’m not gunna stop rubbing it—
never, ever, ever.
| Christine Tierney |
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