First, the scalpel Draw a line from button to bosom Right up the middle of me Reveal the sternum and be blunt Two good swings; snap-crack Bone fragments, put them aside And coerce my skinny ribs to untie Bend them or break them There's still meat to rend Finally, you should hear beating Ah... but now you see it, my secret There is no heart present to pump Only a small effigy, a shrine A crude statue that found its home A token in the likeness of you Now, surely you must be wondering With no heart, how doth my blood flow? Well, look down at your arms, hands Upon the gruesome fruits of your labor ...It's been flowing the whole time Covered; you ought know it Feel it; in your bones, in your soul That when my eyes find yours When our fingers flutter betwixt each other I hear beating once more Bum-bum... bum-bum... bum-bum
No, I suppose love isn’t something you can normally describe with charnel imagery, but all the best words (and combinations thereof) have already been taken. To have someone cut you open and reveal the inner workings of your body… Intimate, in a way. So long as they can stitch you back up, of course.
To my own Queen of the Dark, my personal Dr Frankenstein, my Leading Lady in a Penny Dreadful, my Wicked Witch — this one is especially for you.
AJ Carney 