Originally uploaded by lorenzodom
Sometimes writing in earnest and honest prose
makes me feel like a big open wound;
vulnerable, fleshy—moist, mealy.
My words, surgical tools—cutting, digging, extracting;
long slices revealing; shameless disclosures,
spilling like blood upon the surgical table.
When love serves as anesthesia, I can barely feel
the pain—dull, heavy, numb—especially,
when I succumb to having my heart yanked out.
And yet, here I am. Again, writing;
masochistically delighting in the agony of man,
suffering, because I can, feel.
God, how I love being human.