as a small girl i was given a sterling silver spoon, miniature, with my three names engraved on its stem. an apparently solemn and priceless keepsake, so tiny and delicate, no one would ever actually use it to feed a baby. i found this spoon recently, while shifting through a steamer trunk that stunk of mildew and yellowed papers and stiffening teen magazines, the only smells remaining from my childhood. i turned it over and over in my hands and rubbed my fingers along the names that aren't mine anymore, then i spun it 'round - the scoop pointed at my solar plexis - and dug in.

it wasn't hard because my entire being has softened somehow in the last ten years: flesh to wet sponge, bone to goo, tendon to sodden strings. so i shouldn't have been surprised to find that it was a simple matter of pushing directly through to a lazily beating heart muscle. and i moved that tiny spoon so delicately and dug a little hole no bigger than the size of a newly-conceived fetus fist only slightly to the side of my apathetic aorta.

i say "apathetic aorta" because anyone who's heart is a normal heart would probably have died if they tried this same thing on themselves: taking a small metal spoon from the early 70's, inserting it into their heart, and removing tiny scoopfuls of pulsing muscle flesh, to deposit at the bottom of their cardboard steamer trunk. but my heart didn't care and well, it was just another day, to that lazy lumpful of lethargic tissue.

i didn't do this just to get all my angst out, either (for that i would have tried trepanation). i did this unthinkable thing because i thought maybe if there were a hole there, gasping and sputtering, there'd be room for you to come along and put your finger in and stop up the emptiness so nothing could continue to pour out of me. i wanted to put those little pieces of soft moist flesh on a plate or pillow to present them to you, a gift from on most high, so you could see truly how much i am willing to fork - or spoon - over.

but you didn't return my call when i left messages, dear. you didn't check your email for a month. you didn't sneak past my bedroom window to peer in through the gauze and check to see if i was being well-used. you didn't wonder, you didn't ponder. you went vegetarian and heart-meat was off the menu.

so i'll just wander around, okay, with this stupid fucking useless spoon hanging out of my chest hole. it catches on everything and hurts sometimes. it's cool at parties to pull off my shirt and show it around, how it gently bobs up and down with each beat. it will know before i do when i'm dead. but mostly everyone just ignores the protruding baby spoon, at best giving it an uncomfortable, cursory glance. all they want to see is my new bra and big tits. which is fine, you know, because the filigree names on the stem haven't been mine since i was just under three, or so. it means nothing. really.