A week in, home, heady on opium, I squat and wait.

 

It’s normal, just the drugs, you’ll be fine.

We give it time, Not laxatives.

 

I bargain, internally, negotiate with phantom pain.

If I stop today … Too soon, they say.

I wait.

 

And still I play a waiting game, until I stop. Pain welcome here.

I wait, I wait.

 

On the third day, catharsis.

Right now, I rate a good shit over orgasm.

Relief trumps pain.

 

I wait as, fresh knife each drop, I urinate.

I didn’t know, some lost recall, it was easier back then.

 

It got worse, the curse they say.

Do you know the smell of week old blood?

 

I know now, things should emerge more easily than drip by caustic drip.

 

You want in, modern man, restraining yourself, from cut, slash, rip.

 

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.

 

‘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.

 

 

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.