DEATH Poem: POP, by Stella Vallon

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. It took three weeks;
resisting the urge to rip my
fingers off at the cuticle. I was
told it was gross to be so
ravenous. I was told to find
something else to do with my
hands.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into my
eyeballs. Chunks of innervated
jelly slide loose, getting caught
in the rims of my rubbed raw
sockets.

The chunks trampled over my
eyelashes, tumbling downward.
Blood and plasma sweat down
my neck, crusting behind my
ears, nipping them fiercely; left
then right.

My collarbones filled with the
viscous liquid, dribbling hot
down my chest. I sucked in a
breath as what remains of my
eyes trailed downward like a
wide gelatinous tongue. Cool in
comparison to my blood.

Pirouetting in the poignancy of
my pain.

Spinning sharply on sensation, I
balance atop my
sadomasochism as if it were an
axis; as if I were bound to
return here forever.

I grew my fingernails
from scratch and dug
them into my eyeballs. I
convulsed. My arms
flailing, strobing into
otherworldly shapes,
bending and breaking. I
was transported into a
flashing pinkish
elsewhere. Gummy and
bright.

Crying stickily, my tears
make everything real.

I interpret my fluttering rib
cage as an epiphany; as an
unborn idea waiting to be
birthed from my stomach.

If only I were to push
farther.

I grew my fingernails from
scratch and dug them into
my eyeballs.

I press as hard as I can.
My fingertips reading the
grooves and bumps of my
brain like braille.

Searching desperately for
something legible only to
find patterns beyond the
oppressive grip of
organization.

I became coated in myself,
at once penetrated and
enraptured.

Opaque for the first time.

My flesh finally growing
bones.