Visceral Reality

I could peel myself
away,
Piece by piece
Until all that remains is
Jagged bones.
Not smooth, but bristled.
A pain in my stomach
Could disappear
Like air
If each layer
Of my body
Was gone.
I could smear myself
away,
smush and blot it
until all that remains
is a muddled mess
of brownish red.
I could flush myself
away,
Down a giant toilet.
Let my remains
Bloat and pulse
In putrid smelly water.
I could melt myself
away,
dripping, like a hot wax candle.
Dripping, hardening
Into strange pinkish bulbous
Shapes that are
Ugly but real.
I could scribble myself
away,
Erase and smudge
Every aspect
Of my brain.
Graffiti my eye sockets
and tattoo my toes
until I resemble
The Illustrated Man.
I could stroke myself
away,
Touch, clench, devour
Every morsel until
Nothing’s left.
Caress myself
Into oblivion.
Chaotic with a touch
Of surreal disposition.
I could stretch myself
away,
too tall or too short,
too wide or too narrow,
too straight or too bent
until my internal organs
dangle outside of my
once normal body.
They could glow,
Dance on fire
In the semi-moonlight.
Ghastly ghoulish and eerie.
Pink, Green, Blue.
Yellow, Orange, Red.
Vibrating, sinking,
swimming, floating,
suspended high
but low,
above all obligation
above all purpose
above all responsibility.
My organs could die then,
There, suspended to this fecal body.
Just a hairy body, full of hair.
I could swish myself
away,
Like a sweep of a magical broom.
Poof! Disintegrate into nothingness.
Or transport myself
To a different time period in history.
I could lie myself away,
Until I am no longer
me.
Just a made-up story in a book
That was once read,
But tossed carelessly away,
Waiting, just waiting
For a person, anyone to pick me up
and read about my life
My memories
My experiences.
I could hope myself
away,
Believe in the finite words I say.
Better yet, write them down to capture
who I am,
And what I’ve found
To live another day.