No One Will Want My Organs When I Die

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I try not to think about splitting my head open and letting all the pressure out. When my parents ask my doctor if they need to hide all the sharp objects in the house, she says

No, that if someone really wants to hurt themselves, she will find a way.

Dr. Deidre, each maggot that takes refuge in my brain, I devote to you.

This glass that I am stuck behind--I lean against it now; we are friends.

 

“You have to eat,” my parents say. They pull my eyelids back, tap their feet, and pray.

I cannot remember when bathing and eating and speaking were ever important or as exhausting as they are now.

There is a wart steadily growing on my pinky. It is the only progress I am making.

I scratch and re-scratch the fat scab on my back off, hoping for Staph infection.

My eyes bruise when light falls through the window shades. The sun cannot save me anymore.

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