Holding my guts, my hands patch the holes through which I come undone. Seeping slivers of my interior, I am outside in seconds, still clinging to a dull notion that all that is within is intact and safe. An exposition of internal, I am a short-lived passing through passages, thoughts and fragments severed and extracted outwards.
It was a gentle unraveling at first, like loosening a collar, unbuttoning a shirt, or taking off a sock. Now I am ripped apart, my hands trying desperately to clutch tightly to what has already slipped through my fingers to the ground, the damaged bits washing away in waves.
Delirious as I bleed in bursts, my eyes clinging tightly to their sockets, wedged inside their rightful place as I fall apart in little pieces. I am not a broken bone nor a rupture, but my texture is turmoil, tormented into pieces of a puzzle no longer able of being put together as whole. A bullet may not unravel such an interior. Surgical incisions are likely to reveal less, but there I am, a ghost with eyes, carrying through the air what I could not carry inside. They turn and whisper, the cover their mouths and point, they shriek and stomp their feet, but I continue as if all is well, my eyes my only attachment to earth.
I find a seat on a bench, touching my stomach to make sure nothing more has fallen out of place. My guts have bled out and dried, and I am satisfied, despite hunger and numbed pain. I turn to check if I am leaking, if there are still escaping and dripping parts but I am intact. I lean back and rest what is left of my eyes for a minute. It is nice to be as light as air.