I took a trip to the surgeon for our anniversary.
The doorbell, shaped like a scalpel, rang when I entered.
Anything fresh since the Valentines restock?
Rakes, hoes, pruning shears, gloves and spades laid on a dentist’s tray.
Take your pick.
Flesh was almost as confining as flower pots.
I weeded the skin over my rib cage. I hated pruning lung vessels, nerve by nerve. They just kept dying more and more often by check-up.
My lungs were still shrivelled to a pulp, yet to be puffed and wheezed, like flower buds. They weren’t in season.
How much is this? The bouquet in blue and red?
$70. $20 for rib maintenance.
I’ll take care of that myself. Could I borrow your scissors, please?
Ribs were prison cages meant to be broken. Bone by bone. Each splintered, cracked and hanged by a ligament before pummelling to reveal the perfect gift.
My diaphragm hitched and croaked. I tugged harder. Pulling the bouquet up my oesophagus, it bulged along my throat like a heartbeat.
Let’s mulch the rest later. I’m in a hurry.
Gagging would not help right now. How could this slab of meat create so much friction? Why should there be so many thorns in a body?
Care for anything else?
Well, two lips are too common. These irises have browned a long time ago…
I can try orchids. For the wedding night.
I’ll confirm a womb operation with you.
Blood bloomed like Athena.
I belched
my heart out.
My anatomy weeded out the last gags, groans and everything else.
I puked my perfume on the bouquet. A mixture of saliva, blood and love.
What colour of vein do you think he’d like for a ribbon? The blue ones, vined with the purple?
Puke another vein, come on.
Take your time, m’am.
Fluff out the ventricles, sir, while you’re waiting.
I should never buy myself reincarnations. Flowers were meant to be given, not received.
Maybe consider some other vein alternatives? Baby’s breath? Goes well with orchids.
Repackaging past gifts would be rude… Oh never mind…
These gashes will do, sir. Not these, they’re about to wither.
Why did I spend so much on a Valentine’s gift?
He likes fresh wounds, you see.
Then I’m sure he’d make your heart beautiful by cutting the stems.
Lucien is a teen author and poet. He wanted to sketch the ugliness of possessive love in his work.
Comments