You have my heart, take my liver.

My spleen.

You f*cking Butcher.

Carver. Carving me up.

You can’t dissect me anymore.

Not any more, than I dissect myself.

Every word, Every touch, Every moment.

I have picked them apart.

At seeing them broken, I have reassembled them dutifully.

Carefully. Swiftly.

I wrap myself in a mossy blanket of misery.

Wet leaves stuck to my face, forest kisses.

A slippery Selkie out of her skin.

I want out. Out of this forest.

To transform back to the cunning sea.

She will heal me.