You are a straight line, from throat to gut.
I think about those sliced cows hanging upside down in a butchers house.
I think about eating a sword, or swallowing fire.

Easing myself into a stick, and being turned like a piece of meat.
The fire catching me now and then, burning my skin. Burning my pain. Burning me to sleep.

I wait for the man who puts his hand across my face, and in a violent move shoots me into space.

This too shall pass, but I want it to not stop. Wait.
Burst into the vacuum, they say it has no air, but how come it's the only place i can breathe?

There is a blur. A misty fog, in front of my face it is thick, behind my back it is heavy. I have missed something,
there's something I am missing.

Fill it with a sword, and twist it around like cutting the rare meat. Or do it from the outside in.

Put the temperature on high, and burn until I look ready to eat.