cyclical

I want to reach my arm down my esophagus

into my guts to rip them out; separate them from my body.
I want to hear the connective tissue detach

with a sickening snap.

My guts and I, we're breaking up.
It's not you, its me.
No,
it could be you.
The blood results are in:
infection.
Every organ is sickened.

Still, it could be me.
The brain that never fit the body
The soul ne'er in tune with the world.

And also, I wonder,
if I do this to myself
Out of fear and fickleness; or,
If Fear is in charge
And not myself.

A frightening thought.
Yet also,
Comforting,
To think it's not the real me.
Not me who is infected,
Or wrong for the world
Or making mistakes.