I can feel my heart and lungs
bursting to get out of my body.
They're cramped up
in the tight, moist darkness inside me
and they can't get out.
It isn't fair that they should be so shut up,
unable to experience
the fresh-cut grass on my nose
the thick, loamy soil on my tongue
the soft, papery leaves on my hands.
They threaten to hurl themselves out of me.
I will split down the middle and turn inside out.
My blood will bathe over the whole world
and my heart will leap from my chest in a cry of hunger.
It, too, may burst open
and invert.
If I can't fit the world inside my body,
I will have to stretch my skin out wide enough to lie underneath it.
I will spread out my opened body and allow the world to rush in,
bathing my organs with cool breezes and sharp tastes,
drowning the need for sleep in an ecstasy of sense.
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