Metamorphic

CW: Blood, gore, and surgery

I’m stretched out across a page. My words in full view of the watchful eyes—the assessing eyes that stare at my bare being, ready with a pen shaped to scalpel. My joints are snapped, twisted, and removed. My tendons lay exposed, splattered with red ink across paper. Trinkles of meaning roll away, dripping to a pit of forgotten feelings no longer found between my layers of skin. 

My weeps aren’t audible. They’re stuck—trapped in an unwanted sentence that’s ripped maliciously from my extremities. Each word a finger twisted till the joint snaps and the bone breaks as my knuckle is thrown to the side, left to bleed my sorrow. A burning stream of meaning seeps through, staining the scalpel’s edge, and leaving behind a trail of memories, moments, and misery. Each drip a letter, puddled on the floor, pushed under covers of ink to hide bloody sentences without culpability. 

Each drip a letter— 

Each drip a word, puddled on the floor…

Each drip a word, puddled on the floor, pushed under covers of ink—

Each drip a word, puddled on the floor, pushed under covers of ink to hide bloody sentences… 

Each drip a word, puddled on the floor, pushed under covers of ink to hide bloody paragraphs without culpability— 

Each drip a word, puddled on the ceiling, pushed over covers of ink…

Each drip a word, puddled on the ceiling, pushed over covers of ink to hide bloody sentences without discoverability. 

Torn open, bleeding flesh, wet to the touch.

A prickle navigates my nerves as a concentrated collection begins. The scalpel portions each twist of flesh, separating the wanted from the excess words. A carving knife masticates through squelching tendons, ripping apart any form the sentence once resembled.  A miscalculated tear leads to a moment of decisiveness, to needle and thread attaching imbrued folds of flesh.

Torn open—oozing flesh—moist to the touch.

A stab attacks my nerves as a clumsy collection begins. The scalpel rips each twist of flesh, separating the wanted from the excess words. A carving knife masticates through squelching tendons, ripping apart any form the sentence once resembled.  Miscalculated tears lead to moments of carelessness, to needles and thread attaching imbrued folds of flesh.

Stitched up—dried flesh—rough to the touch.

A fire burns through my nerves as an awkward plunder begins. The scalpel rips each twist of flesh, separating the healthy from the mutated. A carving knife masticates through brittle tendons, ripping apart any form the sentence once resembled. Calculated tears and a lack of judgment push to needles and thread attaching excess flaps of flesh.

I choke on a mouthful of bile pouring out my mouth—beads travel my chin, neck, and chest. Gag after gag, I beg for a release. A break. A comma. A full stop. But it never comes. I lay at the mercy of pens. Scratched skin ruched at the seams, phlegm traps my screeches of protest in a mucus-built prison. Trapped, my sides curl to comfort pieces stretched to display. Yet my edges wave to picket. Liquid trickles a trail of ruby, blotting the wood pulp instrument like a Jackson Pollock—a scene from a scream-inducing slasher for their entertainment. 

I hold the mouthful of bile imprisoned in my mouth—stopping beads from staining my chin, neck, and chest. Gag after gag, I beg for a release. A break. A comma. A full stop. It does not come, not from them. I lay at the mercy of pens. Scratched skin ruched at seams, phlegm traps screeches of protest in a mucus-built prison. Escaping, my sides curl to comfort pieces stretched to display. Yet my edges wave to picket.. Liquid trickles a trail of ruby blotting the wood pulp instrument, the floor, them, everything, et cetera like a Jackson Pollock—a scene from a scream-inducing slasher for my entertainment. 

My vertebrae snap out of place. Then back into place. Then back out. Each bone grates against the next as they deform me. Rippling from start to finish, my spine whips the air before settling back on the cold slab of the table. They blow the dust of ground bone away to stare at the erasure. Pieces of red rubber spread out, left behind by the pencil that once scoured my flesh. 

There is a lingering thrill in the air; a grin lights their oral cavity. My crumpled being is drawn into quarters. The torn edges of myself attempt to roll into me as sentences wave and swell—a line of red drips from an unneeded verb before creating a word of uneasy understanding. 

My vertebrae snap in place. Then back out of place. Then back in. Each bone grates against the next as they deform me. Rippling from start to finish, my spine whips the air before settling back on the warm slab of the table. They inhale the dust of ground bone towards them to stare at the exposure. Pieces of red rubber spread out, left behind by the pencil that once scoured my flesh. 

There is a lingering thrill; a grin lights their oral cavity. My crumpled being is drawn into quarters. The torn edges of myself attempt to roll into me as sentences wave and swell—a line of red drips under an unneeded verb before creating a word of easy understanding. 

I feel. I feel it all. I want to scream it.

Let me scream

Stop. 

Please.

Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Stop. Please. Stop. Please Stop. Please. Stop. Ple—

Something different expels in meaning.

Something different expels in meaning. A new limb hemmed to the creases of an old one. Bloodied pieces and tissues and sheets are tossed to the side. There's no blood now. A dryness overtakes. A silence overpowers.

Something different expels in meaning. A new limb hemmed to the creases of an old one. A prickle from lost nerves. Bloodied pieces and tissues and sheets are tossed to the side. There's no blood now. A dryness overtakes. A silence overpowers.

Something different expels in meaning. 

Something Is Not The Same.

Maris Thompson (she/her) is an English Literature graduate from Yorkshire and is currently training to be a teacher.