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.
Because it hurts.
Because I’m hollowed.
Survival is not enough.