To make myself new, let me then open myself up,
haphazardly, impatiently, violently –
like a seven-year-old opens a birthday present.
Let me uproot my hair to reveal the skull beneath,
gouge my eyes, bend my nose, twirl my lips.

Or perhaps I should open myself up slowly,
like a 15-year-old opens her first gift
from her first boyfriend. She knows what’s inside
and cannot wait to see it. And if it’s something else?
Should she dump him, or may be pick up a fight –
As she unties the pink ribbon, let me shear my head.
With a paper cutter, let me draw
a bloody opening from the back of my neck to my nose
and then expertly hit the middle of my skull
the way a priest smashes a coconut before the idol
and examine the grey matters inside with the same excitement
of a fan girl finding herself alone with her silver screen idol.
(If only I had some fava beans and a bottle of Chianti
I could relive my Hannibal moment with myself!)

Then what? Probably I should leave the brain alone.
It’s old enough and nothing can be done about it!