by Kim Lefort
When they cut me open (the second time)
the nerves were severed and now it feels like
someone else’s skin under my fingertips
I didn’t know it would be this way, and so
(the first time) I touched the scar
I cried
I sometimes still do
there’s a part of myself that will never feel again
A piece of abdomen, right beside the belly button
Pale and scarred and inconsequential
What is consequential skin
but one that can feel warm and one that protects
a necessary casualty for survival
My body feels disconnected and
I grieve, understanding
how the flesh becomes a map to the mind
My skin was cut
but it is my mind that bled
I think it is still bleeding
***
Kim Lefort (she/her) is an aspiring writer based in Montreal, Canada. Her work has been published in the McGill student journal Samizdat. She likes frogs, folklore, and urban agriculture.
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