The Gross Clinic, Thomas Eakins, 1875 (detail)
[warning – graphic]
The doctors will come,
as I stabilized the wound with a metal rail, stretching my abdomen for everyone to see
They all lined up, came by and spit into the orifice, one by one
granting me their final gifts of disregard.
Of course, I cried to them
You there, Sir! Won’t You take pity on this poor wretch of a woman?
Bring her home, slice her, carve her up like a snuff prostitute
then hang her torso over your bed as a lucky charm
to ensure that you, honored Sir, will never succumb to the same madness!
Believe me, I didn’t ask for it either.
But the strange thing about roadkill
is that it’s not a roadkill until you choose to get out of the car and look,
inspect the wheel-tracks carved into it’s stomach like the fingerprints…
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