Like A Wilted Flower

"She loves me..."

The freshly severed right arm
Hits the floor with a full thud.
Blood runs and pools around it
Before the circulation is cut off
By a tourniquet.

"She loves me not..."

The saw carves through flesh,
Tendons, sinew, and Bone with
Some ease.
The right leg dangles by a sliver
If skin before ripping away and making
And even louder thud.
Another tourniquet is applied.

"She loves me..."

The left leg causes me to pause
A few seconds as I run a hand over
The soft skin I was once
Familiar with.
But like a wilted flower,
She is too late to save.
Thud.

"She loves me not..."

I stare into her dying eyes as
The teeth of the saw bite deeper into
Her left arm.
Emotions run rampant as I forcefully
Yank the nearly severed limb from
The middle of her bicep.

"I guess that answers that age old question..."