Reliquary of Medical Waste.

What do you suppose they do with all of those barrels of medical waste? Fat, blood, tissue, parts of organs and glands deemed imperfect, medicine-laden fleshes, clumps of hair, tumors, and every stage of aborted babies up to twenty weeks' gestation. Leftover placenta. Afterbirth and stem cells.

I imagine there's a landfill to collect all of these pieces of us. A floating island somewhere out in the ocean off of the Pacific Coast, immune to earthquakes and man-made tragedies. Biohazardous societies, where the gulls feast on IV bags full of saline and hydromorphone.

I think about Your tumor. Your restless bones. The way that our cells die off and become born anew, baptized every seven years. Yours, reborn, and a discarded collection of cancerous hazardous dinner scraps, feasted upon by impudent birds screaming for a fix.

What a lecherous wreck of leftover cells, la petit Technicolor mutations spewing old, growing new - they’ve grown a whole brand new You. Meanwhile what once was has been cut out with kitchen scissors and sewn up and stitched together with twine and holy scriptures. They call it a little death, but this isn’t so little - it’s a grand gesture of genetic imperfections, frenetic impunity of one’s molecular structure. Halved, and halved once more - when these phantom limbs grow back in, will they remember the spaces between these trees? Will they touch the absolution of sound between fingertips, finding revelation in silence? I hope - I hope until I’m sore - that there’s room in between these forests cradling more than just perfect graves and grand mal storms.

I hope this treatment does the trick because I’m sick and tired of tricks and watching You be sick.

Chaos theory teaches us to expect the unexpected. That the slightest difference in conditions can completely create a brand new outcome. That evidently small changes in a starting point can create exponentially great variations of the final version. That two people, to drink of the same cup, to smoke of the same cigarette, will write two different stories. What doesn't kill You makes me stronger. My veins ache in protest. The storms outside groan, angry clouds begin to exhume and sputter snowflakes with the ferocity of morning phlegm. It's threatening violence. It's deafeningly loud, and coating my lungs in a loud silence. It hurts to breathe it in.

"Snow makes me sad," is the cliff note version of, "I stayed awake all night again, writing about Abortion Island - a reliquary of medical waste - where unborn fetuses mix with chemotherapy-infused masses of tumors and spawn off into half-beings. I then postulated the theory that such a place must exist for the metaphysical - a space for souls to divinely divide. I was doing okay, until I realized I was too undivided."

The beauty of memory is the way it dissects the tiny details and separates perspectives, blurring actual events until it bleeds into one another - sort of. I remember parts of You.

It is in the ways that we remember the deceased do they become holy - angels with no sentiment of living sin. I’m practicing an impractical disaster, I have buckets of bile that threaten to spill from my mouth - caustic chemicals, too. Too. A phantom lump that lives in my throat. Goodbyes are a grand tragedy. Waiting is worse.

Which came first? Your tumor, or the egg? I won't tell You about my latest train of thought. About a civilization of aborted babies and medical waste as an inhuman uprising - and then I think, but what if they had birds wings? and You interrupt my morbid reverie:

"It's chicken for dinner tonight."