Fourteen August Three AM

There are sixty seconds of 3 to 3:01. In the first ten I think I saw my ribcage move, sort of in the way the sand breaks over ghost crabs. The right leg splits at twelve and the left at thirteen. The trembling of an unstable leg emerging shakes off a black shiny oil, like that on water, upset. New fingers break free from old fingers at twenty-seven, and other hip bones like diamonds tear through bone. The emerging thing now only attached from the neck drips clean at forty-one, until fifty when flesh tears there too. Fifty-eight and fifty-nine I heard the final tear inside the back of my head, like the last few sinews of the tooth to the gum. Anyway, that’s what’s sitting here now. You probably shouldn’t touch me. 

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