i could tell you about the lightning root canal of pain
when the anaesthetic wore off midway. 
about fent needles thick with cotton wool and the wound, 
ink continent in my inner thigh. 
about how, medically speaking, i broke my heart when i was eighteen.
they burned that muscle, the lover’s lodestone,
that garish, grasping thing – we gave up on each other. 

i could tell you about how after all that, i sickened again,
black ECG sticker scum, round two romancing the scalpel. 
why can’t i be fucking wordsworth? where are my daffodils?
i’ll swap a paper gown for a pastoral; it’s rough material. 

cut me open first. then we’ll see what i write.