Poem: It must be done

First, they came for the toes and I said nothing. Later, they came for the tongue and I couldn't talk.

It must be done

I burnt my toes off with an acetylene torch this morning.
Even the two big boys who many experts said did good work. It had to be done. Toes are embellishments. An unnecessary waste. Don’t need ‘em.

I broke the fingers of my left hand with a ball-peen hammer.
Smashed each one like a piece of chalk, then cut off the thumb and threw it in the trash. I was told the pain would not last, but it hurt like hell and I did yell (scream) a bit. But, who needs ten fingers? So many sitting idle. Five will do. And I’m right-handed, too.

I cut my tongue out with garden shears this afternoon.
Because who am I to speak (shriek)? What can I say that will help the situation? It’s a waste to talk if you have nothing to add. Keep silent they say and let the hard work of restoring our once glorious body proceed.

I jammed my fingerless left hand into the garbage disposal and turned it on.
Good lord, did it hurt. I howled like a hyena but could not say “Stop” without a tongue. It had to be done. All part of the plan. Do we really need two hands? Isn’t that redundant?

I sawed off my left ear with a hacksaw.
Ruined my shirt. But really, who needs two ears? With one ear I heard the news: chest cavity is on the cutting block next. Two lungs and two kidneys are overreach they say. One of each will suffice. And a big heart is bad for the body, it must be downsized. I take a deep breath and lie on my back. This may be my last message.

Wait, I see my left hand stump, veins pulsing, knock the chest cutter to the floor.
My thick legs shake. My eyes blink SOS. From my throat comes a guttural cry, “Fy ba.” It utters it again. Fight back? In the garbage under the sink, a twitching thumb points up. The voice gurgles, “Ih muh b dun.”