When I left you, a bomb exploded in my body cavity. Throughout the time we were together, I kept one hand on the bomb at all times, acutely aware that even the smallest of movements could set the thing off. After the impact, I saw layers of skin hanging on the maple tree outside of your Brooklyn apartment. Trails of blood followed me through the route of retracing our relationship. I ask myself when it all went wrong, I ask myself when it was ever right. Was I asleep when you put that bomb there, or, perhaps, was I awake, no sedation, no intoxication, no anesthetic, handing you the scalpel.
When I signed up to be a (posthumous) organ donor, I never could have imagined seeing my organs sitting on 6th avenue as if waiting for the F train. Kidneys, liver, lungs, heart, pancreas, intestines. Corneas, tissues, hands, face. What had I signed up for? How could one person receive everything? How could one person be so deficient that they needed everything?
When I go out to retrieve my insides and outsides, I do it alone. There is no lost and found, no posters, no hype. I can offer no financial incentive for information or help or assistance. What do you do with fragile tissue that’s been left out for so long? Exposed to the elements, cut off from the interconnected vital systems. With no medical degree, and limited upper body strength, I have two measly offerings of saline solution. Solution might be a bit of an overstatement.
When I collect myself, I go for the corneas first. Sight. I want to know where I am, I want to see the destruction, the debris, the length times width times depth of the hole I fell into. Next I get my backbone, my gut. Kidneys and liver find me shortly after and begin filtering all of the urea, all of the fat, all of the excess, all of the poison. I have hands, I grab for my face, I sew the chambers of the heart back together, I get my lungs. I can breathe.