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I am searching for my pound of flesh-
Some sort of recompense
for that very same sweet, tender tissue
you destroyed within me.

I imagine the rage building up in those organs
all those years
like the bile
and the fluid
you ignored.
The rage ruptures now,
as I imagine my organs will
in just a matter of time.

In my dreams,
as well as my nightmares,
my life could become some sort of revenge fantasy.
I, the fair maiden,
stricken down by a cruel system,
returning to recapture the debt I’m owed.
Holding that still heart,
that severed head,
that sac of fluid.

Perhaps a bathtub
filled with ice
is the proper punishment.
After all, that’s exactly
what you stole from me-
Cutting and carving and stealing
my organs from me
not with a scalpel,
but with neglect.

Bloody revenge remains but a fantasy.
But what is there to search for
here in reality?

I live in a solitary reality,
where no one sympathizes.
I live in a realm of what is perceived
as delusion.
An anomaly.
An impossibility.

Revenge is cold,
but the loneliness of living is colder.

Pound of Flesh