GASH

I have a gash in my gut. An insatiable laceration marked by marrow. And like all living things, it
requires feeding. So I pink my pout, walk my bloody torso to the market, and stuff my gut with
fresh-cut flowers. Chrysanthemumcore I like to call it. Lovingly. I long for the way it makes my
insides bloom.

And in return my gash feeds me. On the days I don’t feel like love, I suck and I scoop and I
puddle the blood into my palms. My lips pucker as it leaks through my fingers like summer
peach juice squished between flesh. Tasting it. I pat my face with its warm red ooze. A
hyaluronic skin serum.

My cheeks glow and my eyes blossom, open wide and red as a petal-spread rose. Rosy. Among
the white light of the mirror ghosts, mouths agape and howling all hell from their phantom
prison. I turn my back to their beckoned baying and give my gash another good scoop. Hungry.
We both are for that market walk.