I was looking at my elbows. One too many skids along the floor. Skin condition and hard impact equals a distinct resemblance to sides of rare-cooked meat, badly sliced with a blunted knife, gathering dried blood along their many ragged ridges. Now eaten away. Now eaten. The natives were clearly starving and grabbed for any rotten morsel going.
No one eats my heart, though. Not yet. The heart is just a piece of flesh and it’s buried too far down for grubby hands to reach.
No, I won’t subscribe to the popular poetic notion of the heart being the seat of all emotion, of all feeling, of love. It isn’t. No poems or lyrics about the heart here. No words about love. A lump of rubbery meat, a love of rubbery meat. If it was put on your plate, you’d heave.
The rest of me is another matter. There are certainly wasps laying eggs in my mind, of that I’m certain. Any day now, I expect them to hatch from my cranium and swamp my face.
I’ve marked this as an ‘internal dialogue’. It’s an entirely arbitrary classification foisted upon me by the dusty archives of this bloody yet bleached place. Because everything is an internal dialogue now, except when a thought treads too deep a circular path and the ground becomes treacherous underfoot. Then I throw it. Anywhere, somewhere, there, here or elsewhere.
Land. Landing. Landed.