A blood clot, the doctor called it,
after he ran some tests
in the apothecary he called lab.
A three word diagnosis
concluding my complaint
for the numbness I’d been feeling as of late.
I didn’t tell him how it started.
He didn’t need to know you had cut up my runner calves
and slit my marathon dreams
of ever escaping you.

Treatment was dreadful, but quick.
Deciding was the only painful part,
none the less my favorite –
my style: clean cut.

Now the stars complain that I’ve become
highly sensitive, withdrawn, and unfriendly.
The moon wants to take me in and feed me magical dust.
The sun laments that I’ve lost my curves and a thousand pounds.
They cannot possibly grasp
I’ve had to take out that infamous hustler of blood,
that goes by its street name: heart.

©Kozi Nasi