the implant

clawing at the implant, i loose the skin.
it's very messy, but the itching
never ceases.
those robotic skitterings on bones made of marble.
like a glass countertop
that insists on being shattered.

i'd love to tell you all about it.
wouldn't it be nice?
removing components that serve no purpose
other than to slow the CPU
and make a buck.

we're all born in the void
and the void is inky
(yet warmer than i remember)
and the universe hums and pulses.

i spent the whole weekend
talking about innies and outies,
and the curly-haired pixie laughed inappropriately and then
caught herself.
while you didn't crack a smile
because you're used to it,
my advocacy for all devils:
the lone champion against misandry.

(i think it's fun to note what the spell-check catches)


i want the jukebox to play on repeat
"would we be alive?"
and we would all swoon like it was Elvis.
i want the signs to say
"bathroom",
i want to dig out the implants,
i want to show you things that just seem really obvious if you take half a second.

think about the songs we sang, and then imagine
Ann Wilson singing them
like a fucking banshee...
do you need to borrow a knife?

i've been digging and digging and my arms and legs and hips are bloody,
rended like a failed armor save,
and i can't find it,
but the itch is still there.

it's a half-dead fever dream at this point to keep consciousness
in a world i know to hate me.
dig out that fucking implant.