Poem: Returning to the Scene of a Murdered Metaphor

by Amy the Black


Your lungs are what I saw first, displayed on the window, those disgusting balloons gasping at the stale air.

Then your liver, sitting at the bar, drinking another cheap beer—the brand I can’t stand.

Your stomach sat at the table, reading a digest and devouring a nauseous meal.

Your eyes were playing pool, chalking up their sticks and trying to sink the eight ball.

Your dick was on the floor, flopping desperately like a fish out of water.

Your heart was lounging by the radio, tapping a ventricle to the beat of a song I’d rather forget.

But what I hated most were your guts, strung up on the ceiling, and clinging to the chandelier, oozing excrement onto the floor.

You were in pieces, and I was the suspect, so I turned a cold shoulder and ran.