Brine

You hold me like a hook put through the nose,
that slowly pulls apart the brain. You slice
the belly, bottled inside out. Precise
and tender, all except the heart which slows
to gentle pounds, distilled upon a pool
of aged and tartened fruit. You salt my skin
and crystallize my pores, then we begin
to stuff my rib cage full of sand. And you’ll
convince me I’m so healthy, beautiful,
like porcelain, preserved, and put away.
A husk of scarring, petrified, sautéed 
in butter, baked and bruised, an animal.
I wrapped the bandages and tied the knots
that keep me here by means I never fought.

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