I have torn off my arm.
If you find it
don't return it.
Burn it if you must.
It is disease-riddled,
impregnated
with a chicken scratch
that through lulling oscillation
stretch e d
and tore
a fleshy half-moon smile
drooling maroon
let in
a nanobit
of grit
and set it to simmer.
In a wingbeat
I have
ripped the clothes off veins
and left them
drooping in shock
and dis
belief
Damage limitation.
I have torn off my arm.
Don't return it.
For pity's sake, don't try it on.
Don't tie it on
however loosely.
Don't hold it up against your own
for size.
I have torn off my arm for a scratch.
The memory,
the whirring orbit of the flies.
