Too much flesh. I have
too much flesh so you can
have some, a pound of me
off my breast where for years
this burden pressed hotly,
compacted like a secret longing
to be cherished, understood.

It is only flesh, so do not
judge me by its somber weight,
its eloquent pallor, its deadening.
I live still, my pulse ratters
and screams at you although
I am silent.

Picture the movement of eager blood
to shocked dermis, to these hairs-on-ends
that would match one-for-one
my promises (though not yours).
For these I repay a pound of flesh,
more or less, to be weighted,
cleaved by your conscience.

Flesh seems reasonably cheap
for the loving I did not want,
but this riot must be a little
too scant, too vulgar and so
the truth remains like butcher's ware,
hanging, dying there.