To the person who loves me next
Care and cleaning instructions for your new lover
Article by Katie Rowley, art by Natahlie San Fratello
To the person who loves me next,
Cut me open. Seriously. Before you lean in to kiss me, before you take off your pants and wait for what must come next, cut me open. Reach for the scalpel on your bedside table. You won’t know it’s there, but your hands will find it so naturally. Stick the blade into my skin, starting at my sternum. Drag down. Watch the skin break open. You’re going to have to press hard to get past the layers of skin and fat and muscle. Press hard and notice the lack of blood flowing from my severed veins. They’ve been hollow for quite a while. I’m not sure where all my blood went or when it left, but at least it won’t stain your sheets.
Peel back the layers of empty vessels and split muscle, exposing me completely. Crack open each rib. Rip out my sternum and clavicle. Toss them on the floor of your bedroom. Let them settle into the carpet, forgotten. My bones have grown soft, infected by the rot that rests below them. My rot. That’s what the removal reveals. Mold grows between my organs. Spreading from stomach to liver to kidney to lung. I am a carton of strawberries you’ve left in the fridge for too long. You crack open the plastic to disappointment. You toss it in the trash.
Look deeper. Find the source of the mold. If you can find the origin, you can stop the spread. You can save me. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself. That’s the logical answer. You just need to figure out how it started. What went bad first. Maybe, you’ll be the one to find some part of me still clean. Dig around. Stick your hands into my cavity. Let the spores brush against your skin. The fungus is soft. Fuzzy. It won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you.
Remove the rotten organs. Start with my kidneys. Encased completely in white mold. No pink, living flesh in sight. Rip the tissue from those empty blood vessels. Place them next to me. Don’t worry, nothing will leave a mess. I know you’ve noticed the lack of blood, but there’s no smell either. There’s no trace of me dismantled on your bed. Keep going. My stomach full of the grief of those who came before you. Those who waited too long to open me up. Those who, once they found the scalpel, were too afraid of the mold. They gave up before they found the root of the rot. They placed my organs back into my body and stitched me up. And they left, and the rotting continued. Maybe you can stop it. Remove the infection. Your hands rip out organ after organ. Every single one covered in the mold. Your movements grow frantic at the lack of cleanliness. You can’t find something untouched.
Leave my heart for last. I know you can see the mold creeping onto each chamber. But leave my heart until you decide you won’t give up. Leave my heart until you’ve committed to help. The others took my heart first. Even before the mold spread to it, they ripped it out. Called it a preventative method. But when they deposited my organs back into me, they put my heart too close to the mold. Now, there is nothing clean left.
Sometimes, though, in the quiet moments on my bedsheets, I wonder if that is really true. If I am past saving. Perhaps begging another one of you to face my rot is pointless. Maybe there is no real point in letting more hands touch me. The mold feels like mine. Like the first real thing I’ve ever owned. Something no one can ever take from me. I hold it so close, letting it devour the parts of me I will never see. I give the rot a place to fester and grow. And why shouldn’t I? I let it in. I wake up with it. I let people stick their hands in me and try to remove it. And I accept it when it refuses to leave.
You will decide to leave because you will discover there’s no savior for me. There is no source to find. There is no way to stop the spread. The rot started four years ago and grew so rapidly. There’s nothing you can do. Stare at my barrenness. If you’re who I want you to be, you’ll want to do more. You’ll want to keep digging. You’ll wonder if you can scrub my organs clean. Walk to your bathroom sink, the one you share with all your roommates. You’ll pile as much hand soap as you can spare and let the basin fill with suds. But any effort is futile. You’ll wash the mold, uncovering the clean, pink tissue. You’ll place my organs back in all their correct places. And you’ll think I’m cured. But, before you even have the chance to stitch me back up, the rot will return. Faster than you’d think possible, mold will reclaim my organs. There is nothing you can do.
Give up. Once you’ve put me back together, feel free to ask me to leave. Or use me in whatever way you want. It doesn’t matter what you do to me. And when you do disappear on me, you can tell yourself you tried your best.