The last one: it is not for you.

I have stabbed someone.
Just once. Not a dead person.
It was not satisfying at all.
Not what I intended.
There were many surprises.
For instance, the initial severance of skin
makes an awful sound, and almost stopped me
but, magnetic, the blade
searched for vital organs tunneled deeper
for me, it isn’t over
and she didn’t stop me. Nevermind.
No, she simply watched
as I removed each rib
one
at
a
time.
She was so fucking beautiful.
In her open, black-red filled space.
The rising chest and blinking eyes.
The weeping
The plunge
The digging
I am not now, nor have I ever been a surgeon
but I was able--abruptly
finally to quiet the madness
and despite the embarrassment (stunning
and so foolish)
hold closely the slowing of the beat.
It lives on when you’re not in the room.
In retrospect, I have not stabbed anyone.
It was more of a dissection,
more of an unveiling
more a breaking apart of
all things right and human and full.
There were no reparations
sutures, stitching up
and for all of the cutting
all of the ripping
all of the intention
my scar is rather small and
will be well hidden.