Jasminne Mendez


I am never enough.

The doctors swallow my face
with their eyes like tar seeping
through the cracks of city pavements.

Skyscraper hospitals spoon
my reflection into glass & pour me
into the eyes of a waiting room.

A surgeon orders a cat scan to
slice my heart—arms—legs
into bite-size bits and p i e c e s

Medical machines gnaw
at my breasts & my back
salivating on scars of skin.

I stick two fingers down my throat.

What is there left to give?
A shadow lodged in the sternum. A reflux
of regret. A hole          in the trachea.

I gag.

Because it hurts.
Because I’m hollowed.

Survival is not enough.

back to contents