Writers love introspection,
did you know that?

We like to cut a slit, just beneath the ribs
wide enough to fit our entire hand it.
But not wide enough to see inside.

We like to go in blind.

Finger our way past the thin strips of skin and
push our way through the epidermis and dermis
the hypodermis gives way without putting up a fight.

Along the way we are assesing the pulse of the blood vessels
and testing the strength of the connective tissue

By the time we get to the inflexible bone that cages our
hearts, we are exhausted and indignant.

How dare someone else judge us by the thin facade of skin
that separates the outer world from inner!

How could they not know all of the clockwork pieces within us,
are sensitive to every whisper?

Still we push farther, and farther inwards,
each new dose of torment spurring us on…

Then our fingertips brush the malleable surface of our still beating hearts.

Some writers stop there.
Then pull out a pen and write about the self-surgery.

Others grasp that heart in a fist
rip it out
and place it wriggling, on the page.

When you strike gold
Do you leave it in the ground?

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