Inside Counts

Every night

I open my chest

to glare at my contents

to stare at my unmotivated

and hazy lungs

and scrutinize my beaten

and bruised kidneys.

To peer at my sluggish

and sinking stomach

and gaze

upon my abandoned

appendix,

which is alone

and unnecessary,

like me.

Every night

I open my chest

to glare at my contents

to examine my tired

and bored spleen

and ogle

my sour and irate pancreas.

To gawk

at my inconsistent

and urgent bladder

and grimace

at my broken

heart,

which withers

and shrinks

with every passing night.

Every single night

I open my chest

to glare at my disgusting contents,

becoming more and more

nauseated

from years

of watching my organs be crushed.

My elements

have been exhausted,

as has my patience

with my flaws.

They say

it’s what’s inside that counts,

what does that make

me?