deadness

This dead feeling inside me feels like a fold of muscle, which has been denied oxygen, starved of life and medicine. It hurts, enough to never quite let me forget its presence. I open the fold, reach inside the grieving flesh and place a pile of the dead sinew into outstretched palms. The owner of the hands is unsure what to do with the paling matter now dripping through fingers... There's no understanding, so the palms turn away, slide the pain onto the tarmac and wipe hands on crisp azure denim. The two trunks of blueness walk away, and I remain, insides pouring out from the dead place.