Excising love

Miserable, distraught, devastated, in pain,  
he thrashes the lines out of himself;

the blows mercilessly rain

n he flings himself ruthlessly

at his table, hopin to come alive again.

He tears out his innards - bloody grime -

and just places them there - the squishy pulp -

still attached to him with strands of slime;

too distraught to bother ‘bout

arranging them, to look for patterns, rhyme.

Disillusioned lovers, they say, are known to be

creatively mutilative;

most use it as the canvas, but he,

uses his body as the medium, hurtin, dying,

putting it all out thru poetry.

Red muscle, silvery tendons, and bones,

white n still moist, chopped up in dull thuds,

blotches of organs crushed by stone,

reticulated veins, mashed up nociceptors,

and the centrepiece: an intact eyeball alone.

He reaches for his nape,

grips the back bone, and rips it out

in one smooth lashing motion.

Sweeping a bloody curve above his head,

shattering it to bits on his table, and his notion

of love, even as he collapses, feelingless, for now.