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.
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.