Compassion

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I fucking hate compassion.

It’s always a five-day surgery,
some gentle detox—

a chisel perpetually chipping away
the skull, wanting to crack it,
make an omelete,
sprinkle pepper to see
if the brain waves are on fire,
do the patterns dance in normal
line dance fashion,

or are they strewn across the stage,
a postmodern jazz number
writhing and convulsing in the strobe lights of
why aren't you right with god? you worry us,
we pray for you/did we do something wrong?

One wants to pull all the eggs from the carton,
smash them on the kitchen walls and
spread them across the body, smearing the
questions accusations confusions into one's pores,
set fire to the house,
ask them to use a more blunt
or sharp instrument—

a crowbar, please, the chisel is too soft–

so the extraction can just end and
the patient can finally sleep.