the chisel is sharp

the chisel is sharp against my fragile flesh

carving out chunks of me,

once cut, discarded

my eyes do not open for fear they will be taken too

i shudder

my heart is my treasure,

i hope i have guarded it well

but maybe it has already been taken from me

no – it is still beating, i think

but wait –

a sharp pain shoots through my hand

the chisel has fallen hard upon my knuckles

severing my fingers and their

ligaments, muscles, joints

they fall in a pile with the scraps

palms are all i have left

palms for hands

uplifted

with no fingers to grasp for more than i’ve been given

the chisel rests

i wait before cautiously opening one eye

there is no blood

i expected carnage

but it appears that all that has been taken was excess

i am eyes, two ears, and a mouth

lips fashioned for silence

silence is all that i hear

as i stare at the scraps which used to be parts of me

and as i study remnants of my past self

trying to decide if i am in pain

i hear a mournful melody

a cry of grief, a cry of agony, a cry of desperation, a cry of hope

a cry of surrender

and even though my lips don’t move

i know that the cry is coming

from within.

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