popping ichor laced lashes open,
salted tears stinging their freedom through
sterile white, burning breaths,
searing reds rip through my fingers,
screws. Finger screws.
Trapped in this broken body.
Tubes as though my doctor is Frankenstein.
If humor is not dead, neither am I.
4 sleeps from now, I’m entreated to see
the slivers I look through in a mirror.
The only bits exposed through the plaster cocoon.
10 sleeps later, I am cut loose.
my limbs are still jelly.
I am not a butterfly.
I won’t ever walk again.