Cut me open

cross section, scalpel to skin

what will you find?

Flesh

bones

nerves tendons veins,

blood that bubbles, boils.

You'll find, I think

an orange peel,

dried,

from a neighbor's tree.

A scrap of pink fur

faux fuzz, faded grey.

A letter or two

(the handwriting is the same)

they spell out

a mother's love.

Pages

torn from books,

favorite phrases

tucked between my ribs,

hung like jewelry.

Flowers

yellow, dry, brittle

moth-eaten memories.

Strung over organs are lyrics

stitched into ligaments like fine silk

pearls rubies tears,

gleaming and wet

raw.

Under my nails

the dirt

of a backyard, dark and fragrant

(smells of figs and owl feathers)

a small town in Texas.

Everything seasoned

salted

with the brine of the Pacific

acidic, acrid, always aching

drying me inside

(and out).

I am a locked chest

full of useless wants, 

fears loves ideas hopes dreams,

a collage

of myself

stapled to my body.