The Work That Hurts

I’ve been doing the work that hurts. Cutting my stomach open and looking at my guts, my heart.

Who are you? I whisper to myself. It’s becoming clearer and fuzzier at the same time. The more I cut myself open the more I find the rotten parts, meticulously cutting them from the healthy tissue. Where are they one and the same? Where did they come from? Are these parts me? Is it all me?

With every year I find more of myself that I had forgotten about, and forget what wasn’t really myself at all.

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