Spare Skin By Val Roberts

I grab my spare belly skin,

stab it with scissors,

cut it,

snip snip snip.

Rip from my skeleton.

Flush down the sluice.

Blood licks, drips,

rolls down my thick legs

like ruby blobs of menstruation.

I punch my skin together

with small silver staples,

grab a cheese grater,

rest it on my thighs.

I scream.

Shove blue cheesy sock in mouth.

Grate up and down.

Fat falls, piles high

like crumble on a cherry pie.

I cup it in my palm,

flush down the sluice.

Acid hits my throat.

My stomach flips.

I feel sick –

act quick.

I hang my flabby batwing on a silver hook,

slice it with a scalpel I’d hidden in my bed.

Throw fat down the sluice.

Blood runs to the floor,

pools like squirts of strawberry sauce.

I sew my slim limb with a suture kit

I’d stolen from a cupboard

left open in the ward.

Repeat with other arm.

No one can help you unless

You want to help yourself.