if it quirks..

that instinct to run?

I hate it.

They cut me open.

They ripped at the gash; curling away the dry, dead hide, picking through the pink tender sinews, right down to the purple, green-blue nerves.  They strung up the feeling within, wound it up like an electric cord.

My bones.  They crawled into my bones.  They creaked and cracked with such weight.

They asked for food, so I pushed my stomach out the gash to make space for their feast.

They asked for air, so I pushed my lungs out of the gash so they could rocket beyond.

They asked for the word, so I swallowed my tongue to make way for a truer sound.

They asked to go places, so I gave my legs, my feet to skip nations.

They asked to know, so I let them pick my brain to bits.

They asked for color and warmth, so I gave my hands and then my arms;

I stretched them so wide.

They asked for purpose, so I pushed aside my heart to make way for their new pulses.

They crawled inside my empty carcass, and made me live.  

They sewed up the slash marks

…my blood…