lately i've been fantasizing about being cut open. from ribcage to pelvic bone, one clean line with a sharp hot knife. through skin, fat, muscle. a fist into my belly, my guts splayed across my torso. i don't think about the pain, the blood, the reality of death. i think about being destroyed, unmade, desecrated. i don't think about my cock getting hard, or my wound being fucked, or the genital fluids. not this fantasy. this is the smell of cauterisation, the melting fat, the unbecoming. it's the wound being forced open, my intestines pulled out, them across the parts of me still whole. i'm a cadaver on the medical students' table, but i'm not dead yet, there's no space for respect and this isn't for a greater purpose. i think about my skin not being able to hold itself together anymore, the fat layer disintegrating, a lifetime of work undone by a sharp piece of metal. i think about my cells splitting apart, going from a not-really-but-passably-healthy person to a medical crisis, a person to a pile of gore, just by the use of force on a hot sharpened piece of metal and a hand reaching for me. i fear things from which there is no coming back and no going forward, i avoid injury, i turn from death, but if it's what it takes to truly be used, objectified, i will face it
tulle, 31.08.24