A week in,

Home,

Heady on opium,

I squat,

And wait.

 

I wait as, fresh knife each drop,

I urinate.

I didn’t know,

Some lost recall,

It was easier back then.

 

It’s normal,

Just the drugs,

You’ll be fine.

We give it time,

Not laxatives.

 

It got worse,

The curse,

They say.

Do you know the smell of,

Week old blood?

 

I bargain, internally.

Negotiate with phantom pain.

If I stop today,

Too soon, they say.

I wait.

 

I know now,

Things should emerge,

More easily,

Than drip by,

Caustic drip.

 

 

You want in,

Modern man,

Restraining yourself,

From cut,

Slash, rip.

 

And still I play a waiting game,

Until, I stop.

Pain welcome here.

I wait,

I wait.

 

I try again, you come with me,

Hold my hand, so I can’t run.

I lie there, legs spread.

You talk over my head,

Make arrangements.

 

Make it easy,

‘It’ll all be easier soon.’

Just open me up.

I pretend I’m not here.

We’ll all be happier when it’s done.

 

On the third day,

Catharsis.

Right now, I rate,

A good shit over orgasm,

Relief trumps pain.

 

It isn’t how I imagined.

You’re happy, though,

And I’ve regained,

Hours each day,

Weeks each month.

I plot the rest of my life.

Day one.