There's this knot in my stomach, see

that's fuschia and bilious and dripping with ink

and its wound itself around my

oak-tree lungs

and threaded through my

bleeding heart

so that if I untie it,

all of my organs will scatter over the floor

in a liquid heap of

bloody yellow plastic wrappers

and viscous cornsyrup.

"God, wouldn't that be lovely,"

my brain said

from the bottom of the trash pile

I threw it in 

along with my ambitions and convictions.