Gnawing My Way To Freedom

Gnawing My Way To Freedom
If I had known back then what I know now

I would have double-bagged it with you,
triple-bagged it with you,
sealed the base off with a length of duct tape
from my department of homeland security home starter kit,
established a thirty-foot perimeter of razor wire,
anti-personnel mines,
guard dogs
and short-tempered security guards,
who, in essence, would just be paid to deploy tasers first,
ask questions later.

I would have thrown it in a safe,
hid the safe in a concrete bunker
buried down deep with Jimmy Hoffa bones
and any shred of dignity that I had left.

I would have crossed my fingers,
kissed a mangy rabbit’s foot,
swore to a higher power,
become the devoutest of Catholic sodomites,
praying for you to not breathe on me so much
while we made love
the way zoo animals do or
PCP-crazed chocoholics might,
me, doubled-over, in a pool of my own sweat,
you in your leather harness
and monogrammed rubber gloves.

I would have lopped it off with rusty pinking shears
and made confetti of it with an angry wood chipper
and closed eyes.

Something.

Anything.

There’s a reason why the surgeon general warns against huffing paint thinner with maneaters.

And, trying not to wake you as I escape into the morning,
wondering what my shoulder tastes like
and if I will ever actually need my left arm again.